


Outshine the Morning Sun

by chanderson



Series: Young, Scrappy, and Hungry [21]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom George, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Man, Our soft boys are going to be dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: His sister is dead.There’s no one else who knew him as a child.He’s the last one. Alone.--George's sister and brother-in-law die, leaving behind their son Lawrence.





	1. Sacramento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly suck. I swear I'll write the wedding fic eventually. For now... buckle tf up for this one.

“Alright, Tom, what’s it gonna take for me to convince you to vote for my clean energy bill?” George asks teasingly. Jefferson chuckles and takes a sip of his still-steaming coffee. 

“Well, Mr. President, probably you throwing support behind my re-election campaign.” Jefferson shrugs and smirks at George over the top of his mug. George shakes his head and rubs his chin.

“You know that you’ve already got my support, Tom. Though, I don’t know how good that’ll look to your base.” 

“I’m hoping it’ll get me some of the moderate Republicans. Some of the Tuesday Group supporters, you know? I’m fucking done with the Tea Party.” 

“But James isn’t?” George asks casually, taking a sip of his coffee. He doesn’t miss the way Jefferson tenses and sets his cup down with a clatter. 

“No. Jemmy isn’t,” he says, his voice tight. “But he’s free to pursue his own political path. We don’t _have_ to vote together. We try not to let politics get in the middle of our relationship.” George nods and reaches over to squeezes Jefferson’s knee. 

“That’s good—”

“George, love,” Alex says as he sticks his head in the door. “You have an urgent personal call on line one.” Alex slowly edges into the room and nervously adjusts his tie. George frowns and shifts his weight. 

“Um, okay,” he says slowly. “Where’s Betsy?” He gets up and hesitantly makes his way to his desk. Sure enough, the light next to line one is blinking. Alex clears his throat and glances over at Jefferson. He takes the hint and stands up. 

“And that’s my cue,” he says, smiling good-naturedly. “I’ll see you next week, Mr. President.” He ducks out of the door, patting Alex on the back as he goes. After the door is shut, Alex walks over and stands behind George’s desk. He rocks back on his heels and gnaws on his lip, not quite meeting George’s eyes as he stares at a point past his head. 

George’s stomach twists, an awful foreboding feeling suddenly creeping up his throat. “Alex, what’s going on?” 

“Just answer the phone, sweetie.” George swallows and gives Alex one last searching look before picking up the phone. He nervously twirls the cord around his finger.

“Hello, this is Washington.” There’s a beat of crackling silence before a deep, male voice answers him.

“Mr. President, this is Dr. Robert Walker from Mercy General Hospital in Sacramento.”

George knows what he’s going to say before the words are out of his mouth, feels the world start to close in around him. 

“Oh God, is it my sister?” His legs suddenly feel weak and he stumbles back to sit in his chair. His heart is starting to hammer hard in his chest, tattooing his ribcage. His limbs feel heavy.

“Yes Sir,” Dr. Walker murmurs. “Your sister and her husband, Mr. Lewis, were in an accident.”

_Fuck._

“Are they—” George’s voice cracks and he swallows. 

“Both of them were pronounced dead shortly after arriving at the emergency room, Sir.” 

Alex hesitantly reaches over to hold George’s hand. George can barely breathe. 

“What about her son?” he whispers. “Where is he?”

“He’s at the hospital with a social worker. He was at home when it happened.” Dr. Walker pauses and clears his throat. “Sir, your sister listed you as Lawrence’s guardian in the case of her and her husband’s death.” 

George freezes, his mouth falling open. “I’m _what?”_

“You are Lawrence’s legal guardian, Sir. We’ll need you to come to Sacramento as soon as possible.” 

“Of course. I—I can be there tonight. Thank you, Doctor.” 

George hangs up and slumps forward to rest his head on his folded arms. Alex starts to rub his back in slow, soothing circles.  


“Is your sister… Did she…?” Alex stutters awkwardly. 

“She’s dead. Her husband too.”

“Shit,” Alex says. “I’m so sorry, George.” 

“She listed me as her son’s guardian.”

Alex’s hand stills and he inhales sharply. “You mean… You’re his—he belongs to you?”

“Unless I dump him in the foster care system?” George asks ruefully, finally sitting up and looking at Alex’s pale face. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Alex breathes. 

“I need to go to Sacramento tonight.” George presses his palms into his eyes, grinding against the soft skin of his eyelids until it hurts and he feels dizzy. “I need to tell Gilbert and Catharine, make sure she’s fine with taking over for the next few days.” The breath gets caught in George’s throat and he laughs. His sister is _dead_. 

There’s no one else who knew him as a child. 

He’s the last one. Alone. 

That thought alone makes his stomach lurch and he drops his head into his hands. 

“Hey, let me take care of that,” Alex says gently, the hint of a tremor in his voice. “You need to go lie down.” 

George raises his head back up and shakes his head. “No, no. It’s fine. I don’t have time. Lawrence is probably so scared. He’s just sitting there all alone and his parents are dead and he barely even knows me.” George sucks in a ragged breath and wraps his arms around himself. “Oh my God.”

Alex shushes him and squeezes his shoulder. “Go lie down, George. You’re panicking. I’ll take care of spreading the word and getting everything set up. Just go rest your eyes for a second. I’ll be right there.” Alex doesn’t quite meet his eyes, glances out the windows with a dark look on his face. 

George blinks back tears and nods numbly.

_My sister is dead._

He walks to the Residence in what feels like a dream. He barely registers the change of scenery until he’s collapsing down on the bed in his clothes, curling in on himself in an attempt to hold himself together. 

_My sister is dead and her son that I barely know is legally under my protection._

Even though they were closer in age, only 3 years apart, George was never very close to his sister. He was too busy hero-worshipping his brother, following him around everywhere he went, to pay much attention to Betty. As the only girl, she just didn’t mesh well with them. They wanted to play basketball and wrestle; she wanted to sit inside drawing and playing piano. And, though he would never admit it out loud, George was jealous of Betty. Their parents _adored_ her. She was their precious princess, the apple of their father’s eye. He loved to spoil her with toys and clothes, and she was close to their mother in a way that only a mother and daughter can be. 

And, just like Lawrence, their father never hit Betty. But unlike Lawrence, Betty never tried to do anything about it. She pretended that their father wasn’t a nasty drunk, pretended that George’s bruises were from all the roughhousing he got up to, not their father’s fists. 

So they were never very close, and when Lawrence died, they retreated into themselves. Betty was at UCLA and George just finishing high school. There wasn’t much tying them together anymore. Everything was unraveling so quickly—life as they knew it—that it wasn’t worth the effort trying to keep it together.

They still kept in touch, exchanging gifts and cards on holidays. She was there to help him when Martha died; they worked together after their mother died; and she held the bible for him at his first inauguration. 

But aside from that? 

He barely knows— _knew_ —his sister. He remembers the way she used to blast Jimmy Hendrix on her stereo; he remembers the pink skirt she always wore; he remembers that her favorite color was lilac. But he never _really_ got to know Betty—what scared her, what she dreamed about at night, what she felt after their father died.

He barely knew his sister, and he barely knows her son.

They’ve met a few times, and George always makes a point to send the boy a present for his birthday and Christmas, but that’s about it. 

All George knows is that Lawrence is 12 years old, smart, quiet, and likes building legos.

_My sister is dead and now I have to raise her son._

George’s stomach churns nauseatingly and he rolls over to stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore how hard his heart is pounding in his chest.

“Oh my God, what am I going to do?” he chokes, his voice loud in the otherwise quiet room. “Alex and I just got married a few months ago, I’m in the beginning of my second term as president, and now I have a _child_.” 

George groans and presses his hands into his eyes, his chest suddenly tight with panic. “What the _fuck_ am I going to do?” George covers his face with his hands and just breathes, focusing on the whooshing of air in his nose.

“George?” Alex walks into the room, a defeated slump to his shoulders. “We need to start packing.” His voice is husky and thick like he’s trying not to cry. He doesn’t even look at George as he breezes by and disappears into the closet.

George gets up slowly and follows him into the closet, grabbing clothes at random. He almost feels like he’s watching a movie, observing someone else’s life. This can’t possibly be happening to him. 

Beside him, Alex sniffs loudly and George catches him rubbing his eyes, obviously crying. He reaches out and grabs Alex by the wrist. 

“What?” Alex snaps, wrenching his arm away. George blinks and clutches a tie in his hand.

“Why’re you crying?” 

“I’m not,” Alex says curtly, tugging a few pairs of boxers out of his drawer. “I’m fine.”

“You’re crying, and I need to know why,” George says, his own voice sounding shaky and weak. Alex tries to glare at him, but tears are running down his cheeks and he whimpers before pressing his face into George’s chest. 

“I’m scared,” he cries. “We just got married and now I guess we have a fucking child to take care of? I don’t _want_ a kid. I can’t—” Alex takes a heaving breath and sobs. “I can’t be a dad. I don’t want to be a dad.” He pulls away from George and turns around to stare at his rack of suits. His shoulders are shaking. George’s head hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He leans against the wall and lets his head fall back with a thunk. “Fuck.” 

Alex barks out a hysterical laugh and pulls his black suit off the rack. 

“You didn’t know that she listed you as his guardian?” Alex asks quietly as he zips his suit up in a garment bag. George finally cracks his eyes back open and shakes his head. 

“I had no idea.” He shakes his head and bends down to get his black dress shoes.

“How old is he?” 

“Twelve.” A beat of silence. “He’s really smart,” George offers weakly. 

Alex busies himself with packing, carrying things into the bedroom to be packed into his suitcase. George watches him as he goes in and out of the closet, carefully folding socks and ties for the both of them. 

“What’s his name?” He doesn’t look up when he asks it. George folds his sweatpants and lays them in the bottom of his suitcase. 

“Lawrence.” 

George doesn’t miss the way that Alex’s shoulders tense. Clearly hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Well fuck me,” Alex says, laughing, unkind. 

\---

The flight to Sacramento is long, and George can’t take his mind off the boy waiting for them. He can only imagine how scared and confused Lawrence must be feeling. One second he’s living with his parents, and the next he’s waiting in a hospital for the President of the United States to come pick him up. What the fuck? Where’s the justice in that situation? 

George sighs and rubs his temples. Alex is in the bedroom resting, has barely even looked at him since he got the call. It’s so fucking unfair. It’s like he can’t catch a break. Life can never just go well for him. Something always has to swoop in and ruin everything. 

And now he’s completely alone. 

Sure, he’s got Alex and Lafayette, but it’s not really the same. It’s not a substitute for his _family_ —the people who were there when he said his first word and learned to shit in a toilet. There’s no one left to reminisce with, talk about the way things were when they were all young and happy. The golden time before their father got mean, the time when everything was good and they were a real family. 

George hugs himself and blinks back a rush of tears. Now’s not the time to get weepy. Lawrence is going to need George to be strong for him. 

Except George’s chest is aching and he feels uncomfortably empty, like someone went inside and scooped out all of his insides. His sister is dead and he’s never felt so alone in his entire life. 

He suddenly wishes that his mother was here, which is fucking stupid, because what would she do? 

_She would know what to do._

He sniffs and wipes his sweating palms off on his jeans. 

Everything is going to be fine. It has to be. 

\---

As soon as they land, they’re shuffled into a motorcade and start toward the hospital, sirens blaring. George feels claustrophobic. The tension in the air is thick, uncomfortable. The silence hanging between them is heavy, significant. George aches to pull Alex against him. 

“Alex, are you okay?” he finally asks softly, needing to break the silence. Alex looks over at him from his spot pressed up against the window, the lights from the street outside throwing shadows over his face. He sighs and drums his fingers on his thigh. 

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “I honestly have no fucking idea, George.” 

“I’m sorry.” George looks at the wide space between them, a gaping chasm, and his stomach hurts. “Are you mad at me?” Alex huffs a sarcastic laugh and turns to look out the window. 

“I just need time to process this, okay? Can you please just give me some fucking time?” he snaps. George bristles and bites his lip. 

“Sure. Sorry,” he whispers. Alex’s breath hitches.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he says thickly. “You’re making me feel guilty for being upset.” He rubs his eyes and curls in on himself. “I get that your fucking sister died, but I can’t—I don’t want a child, George. And now I have a child. I mean, what the fuck?” 

George doesn’t know what to say. He just folds his hands in his lap and swallows down the words he wants to say:

_Please don’t leave me. I need you. I can’t do this without you. I love you so much. Please._

\---

Lawrence is sitting in a private waiting room, his knees awkwardly drawn to his chest in one of the uncomfortable-looking vinyl chairs. He’s staring at the ground, as still as a statue, but he raises his head when George walks up. His eyes widen at the sight of the Secret Service agents flanking him and George tries to smile reassuringly, wanting— _needing_ —to put this boy at ease. 

“Hey Lawrence,” George says, his voice cracking. Lawrence stares at him, his dark eyes a mirror image of Betty’s. Of George’s own. “How’re you doing, pal?” George approaches slowly and finally kneels next to Lawrence. “Do you need anything?” 

“No,” he mumbles, glancing away to stare at the wall. “I’d like to go home.” George has to swallow down a lump in his throat, takes a few moments to compose himself. 

“Okay buddy. We can do that.” George takes a deep breath and hesitantly squeezes Lawrence’s knee. “Has anyone talked to you about why I’m here?” Lawrence tenses and leans away from him. George immediately moves his hand, letting it fall limply by his side. Lawrence sighs and sucks his lip in over his teeth.

“You’re taking me to live with you.” He chews on his lip. “I’m not stupid. I know my parents are dead.”

“I know you aren’t. You’re being very brave, Lawrence.” George swallows and stands up, his knees cracking. “I’m going to go say goodbye to your mom. Would you like to come with me?” 

“No.” Lawrence picks at a string on his jacket. George forces himself to stay calm, keeps his breathing slow and steady. 

“Alright. Well, we’ll go home as soon as I’m finished, okay? Sit tight bud.” Lawrence still doesn’t look up at him as he walks past, numbly letting the doctor lead him to Betty and Fielding’s room. After the door swings shut behind him, he belatedly realizes that Alex isn’t with him.

He sits down in the chair next to Betty’s bed, takes her hand and squeezes it. “I’m so sorry Betts,” he chokes. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He kisses her hand and holds it against his cheek. “I’ll take good care of Lawrence, okay? I’ll make sure he’s okay. He’s so handsome, Betty. Looks just like you and Fielding. I can already tell he’s going to be stubborn like you—” George laughs and rubs the tears out of his eyes. “I’ll miss you, Betts. I’m sorry we never really got around to getting to know each other. I love you.” 

George leaves his sister’s room, letting the door swing shut behind him, leaving the last remnants of his childhood behind. 

Alex is leaning against the wall in the hallway, and he looks up when George walks out, immediately pulling him into a hug.

“I’m so sorry, George. I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’ve been such an asshole tonight. I’m just so scared, you know? I mean, I’m not exactly father material—” Alex chuckles nervously and sniffs. “But I’ll try, because I’ve been in Lawrence’s position. I know what it’s like to feel so fucking alone that you don’t even know what to do. It’s so horrible. I can’t—we can’t—let him feel like that. No kid deserves that.” Alex whimpers and presses his face into George’s neck. His tears burn white-hot on George’s skin.

George brushes his fingers through Alex’s hair and holds him closely, shushing him. “It’s okay, Alexander. Don’t cry,” he whispers. “I love you. You’ll make a great dad. I know it.” 

They stay standing there for a few minutes longer, clinging to each other in the middle of the empty hallway, the smell of antiseptic and death thick and heavy in the air around them. 

George goes and signs what feels like an entire mountain worth of paperwork, and Alex patiently stands at his side, rubbing soothing circles into his hip. Grounding him. Reminding him that it'll be okay. It's always okay.

When George is finally finished, they walk hand-in-hand into the waiting room. Lawrence is in the same position they left him in: Curled over, hugging his knees to his chest, staring at the ground. George clears his throat and tries to smile. “Hey Lawrence, you ready? We’re gonna go and spend the night at your house. How’s that sound, buddy?” 

“Fine,” Lawrence says. He uncurls and stands up, balling his fists at his side. George’s heart aches for him. 

“You’ll get to ride in a motorcade. Bet you haven’t done that before, huh?” George says, his tone a sad attempt at something close to jovial. Lawrence just shrugs and follows them out the door, eyes cast downward. 

They ride to Betty’s place in silence, Lawrence looking dispassionately out the window the entire time. After several sad, failed attempts at engaging him in conversation, George leans against Alex and closes his eyes, wishing desperately that this entire day could just fucking end already. 

When they get to Betty’s, Lawrence immediately disappears into his bedroom, and George halfheartedly gets Alex and him set up in the guest bedroom. He’s only been here a couple of times, never really had much time to visit Betty, so he feels awkward—clumsy—as he navigates his dead sister’s house, trying to find where they keep the extra blankets. 

George takes a long shower, sitting down on the ground and letting the water run down into his eyes. He feels like a fucking intruder, like he doesn’t belong here. Sitting here in Betty’s house, using Betty’s stuff. It’s unsettling, and George wishes he could wash it off—this horrible feeling—but you can’t cleanse pain with Dove soap. There’s no way to mop up the depression settling itself in his bones as he thinks about what the fuck he’s going to do. 

He has a son now. Sort of. 

He doubts Lawrence will be calling him dad any time soon. Maybe he never will. 

“George? You okay, sweetheart?” Alex knocks on the door and pushes it open all in one move, and George watches him come in the door through the foggy glass of the shower. “George?” Alex stands outside the shower, his figure a little clearer now that he’s so close. 

“Yes?” George finally says. Outside the shower, Alex touches the glass. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Just needed some time to clear my head.” He shivers in the rapidly cooling water. “I’m getting out soon.” 

“Okay. I’ll be in the bedroom.” Alex’s figure retreats and George sighs once the door is shut behind him. 

After a few more minutes, George hauls himself to his feet and steps out of the shower, his teeth chattering. He halfheartedly dries himself off and walks into the bedroom naked. Alex is sitting up in bed reading a book, and George smiles when he sees a pair of boxers and a t-shirt set out for him. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs as he gets dressed. Alex shrugs and sets his book aside.

“You’re welcome, love.” 

George climbs into bed and immediately curls up in Alex’s arms, sighing when Alex gently squeezes the back of his neck. 

They lay there together, enveloped in the darkness, breathing quietly. Simpatico. 

The room is uncomfortably unfamiliar. The sheets are stiffer and starchier than their’s at the White House; the air is cold and drafty; and there’s a whole symphony of foreign sounds: The quiet humming of an air-conditioning unit, the distant barking of a dog down the street, the whooshing of cars outside the window. 

But then Alex is stroking his side and kissing the shell of his ear, and George closes his eyes, letting the comfort of Alex’s body beside him lull him to sleep. 

He dreams about teaching Lawrence to play basketball. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be the last "big" fic of this series, but actually who knows b/c I never plan things lmao. 
> 
> I know GWash had several other brothers, but in this fic I've always only had it be him, Betty, and Lawrence. 
> 
> For a visual reference, I imagined lil Lawrence looking like [Alex Hibbert](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2016/10/17/article-urn:publicid:ap.org:852126f36456436a9b4e092ac573401f-38AxOnTZl34fffffd23ae5443b3c-573_634x473.jpg) from Moonlight.
> 
> Sorry if I fucked up the process of becoming a child's legal guardian. I tried to just kinda gloss over/skip any technical stuff b/c I suck.
> 
> Yell at me in the comments if you want.


	2. Experience is the Best Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow is my last day in D.C. and I'm!! SO SAD!! 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter!

George wakes up with a pounding headache and a bad case of cotton mouth. As he rolls over and buries his face back into his pillow, his stomach roils. He feels hungover, like he’s been at a kegger chugging beer all night. 

A glance at his phone tells him that he’s awake obscenely early; his alarm won’t be going off for another two hours. Alex is still sound asleep, his mouth hanging open, so George slowly eases himself out of bed and tiptoes out of the room. 

The pre-dawn light is just starting to filter in through the windows and George squints in the low lighting as he pads down the stairs, careful not to trip and bust his ass. 

His chest aches when he sees Lawrence curled up on the couch in front of the T.V., CNN on with the volume turned down low. Lawrence looks so small and lonely in the middle of the big, sectional couch. A couch made for a family.

George bites his lip, glances in the dark kitchen, weighs his options, before quietly walking into the living room.

“Hey Lawrence, you awake buddy?” he whispers. Lawrence stirs, the blankets rustling, and sits up. He blinks at George, his eyes immediately narrowing. 

“My mom and dad always let me sleep on the couch,” he says defensively, his lips curling into something close to a snarl. George swallows, tries not to look nervous. 

“Of course,” George says quickly. “You can sleep on the couch as long as you want. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I’m fine.” Lawrence turns back around and George stares at the back of his head. 

_Don’t take it personally._

“Alright, well, I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.” George waits for Lawrence to reply but he just turns the T.V. volume up and settles back down in his little nest of blankets. George walks back upstairs, discouraged. 

So Lawrence hates him. It makes sense—the kid’s parents just fucking died—and here George is, swooping in to completely uproot his life. 

Hating him? It’s completely fair. 

George slowly makes his way upstairs, taking time to study the pictures hanging on the wall: Black and white prints of Betty, Fielding, and Lawrence. They were a beautiful family. Happy. All in matching sweaters, sitting on a fallen tree in some nondescript forest. It’s nice, makes George sad knowing that later today he’s going to be sorting and packing all this shit up—boxing up his sister’s life. 

There’s a photo hanging in the hallway upstairs that he didn’t notice before, and he comes to a stop when he sees it, feels his heart skip a beat. 

It’s one of the last photos they took as a family, right after George’s 11th birthday. Right before their father died. 

He leans over to get a better look at it, sticks his nose right up to the glass—so closely that his breath fogs it up—and just stares, mesmerized. It’s funny seeing himself so young with a boyish grin and head full of curly hair. Beside him, Lawrence has an easy smile on his already dashingly handsome face, and George sighs as he studies his brother’s face. Betty is on the other side of George and his eyes suddenly flood with tears when he sees her. 

He’s the only one left. 

\---

Soon after, George sets up a secure video chat on his laptop and has his daily briefing, barely listens as his national security team rattles off the details of a chemical attack on an American citizen in Beirut.

_You should care about this_ , his brain tells him. But everything is hazy and his head feels like it weighs about a thousand pounds, so being president is _hard._

“George?” Alex sits up in the bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and squinting. “What’re you doing?” He yawns and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I just finished up my briefing.” George moves to sit on the bed and smiles at the way Alex leans in expectantly, face turned up for a kiss. George pecks his lips and pushes a strand of hair out of his face. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” 

“No, no. You’re good.” Alex yawns again and stretches his arms over his head. “How long have you been awake?” George shrugs and glances at his watch. “About an hour and a half.” 

“Damn, early morning, huh? You feeling okay?” George lays on his side and props himself up with his elbow. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Just stressed I guess.” He runs a hand over his shaved head and tries to ignore Alex’s searching look, the slight squint at the corner of his eyes that lets George know he’s upset. 

“Baby,” Alex finally says softly, reaching over to graze his fingers over the back of George’s shirt. “It’s okay if you’re upset or sad.” George huffs a laugh and eases himself down to lay on his stomach, burying his face in his folded arms. 

“I don’t want to scare Lawrence,” he says, his voice muffled.

“George,” Alex sighs, trailing off. He rucks George’s shirt up, and George shivers as he rubs his bare back. 

“Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize. Just—don’t hide, okay? You’re allowed to break a little. Your sister just died.” 

“I know.” A beat of silence. “Am I an asshole for never really getting to know her?” 

Alex’s hand stills, rests heavy and warm on George’s lower back, before he resumes his movements. He sighs through his nose, shifts his weight. 

“No,” he finally says. “And you shouldn’t feel guilty. What good is that going to do? It won’t change anything. She’ll still be dead.” 

“Yeah.” George blinks, thankful that his face is hidden in his arms. “I’m just so—I don’t understand why she chose me.” 

“Well,” Alex muses, “probably because you were her best bet. I mean, Fielding didn’t have any siblings, right?” 

“Yeah; he was an only child.”

“Okay, so, that leaves you or his parents, and I’m assuming his parents are pretty fucking old.” Alex pauses. “And then there was one.” George winces.

“That’s not exactly comforting,” he mutters. “She trusted me with her kid because I was her only fucking option. That really inspires confidence.” George laughs, a hard sound in his throat, and blinks away another rush of tears. This is so fucking stupid. He’s not ready to have a kid to take care of; he’ll probably just fuck Lawrence up and then he’ll snap and go bat shit crazy as an adult—

“George, babe, that’s not what I meant _per-say,_ ” Alex says. “Don’t do that to yourself, okay? I was going to say that you’re also responsible, loving, kind, and good with kids.” Alex moves his hand to pet George’s ribcage, soothing him. “Don’t be so down on yourself.”

George sighs through his nose and nods. “Sorry. I know this isn’t what you signed up for.” Above him, Alex scoffs and pokes his side. 

“Shut the fuck up, George. We’ll get through this. We always do.” 

George doesn’t miss the uncertainty in Alex’s tone. The fear. 

He rolls back onto his side, stares up at Alex, his chest tight with feelings he couldn’t possibly put into words. 

“I love you,” he settles on saying. “So much.” 

Alex smiles, his eyes shining. 

“I love you too.” He cups George’s face and strokes his cheek. “Now, how about I go raid the kitchen and make us some breakfast?” 

George isn’t particularly hungry but he nods anyway, if only to see the smile Alex flashes him as he swings his legs over the bed and goes into the bathroom. George closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of the sink running through the wall. Centers himself. _Just Breathe._ It’ll be fine. 

\---

Lafayette and the rest of his staff arrive later that day, moving into a hotel near Betty’s neighborhood. Lafayette and Angelica promptly come over and start helping them sort through everything, getting it ready for an estate sell. George is flipping through a filing cabinet full of papers: Birth certificates, medical records, insurance information, and Lafayette is digging through one of the random cardboard boxes shoved into the corner of the garage. 

“Okay, so, we’ve rescheduled your phone call with Prime Minister Trudeau until after the funeral,” Lafayette says as he coughs and waves a cloud of dust out of his face. “And that meeting with the United Steel Workers is going to be next Friday.” He pries the old, soggy box open and wrinkles his nose. “This is just a bunch of old, dusty newspapers. Who keeps newspapers?” George looks up from the piles of paperwork spread out around him and shrugs. 

“I guess my sister? I don’t know, what publication are they?” 

“LA Times. A bunch from the 90s. You think anyone would want these?” Lafayette pushes the box out of the way, the cardboard scraping against the floor. 

“Um, maybe. I’d go on and keep it.” George sighs loudly through his nose and pulls open the last drawer in the cabinet, sighing when he sees that it’s empty. They’ve already been at this for a few hours and it’s absolutely exhausting, physically and mentally draining. Alex is upstairs with Angelica sorting through the Christmas boxes in the attic. George didn’t think he could do it, seeing all the ornaments that used to belong to his parents. The ornaments they hung on the tree as kids. 

“Hey, you wanna take a break, brother?” Lafayette asks quietly, pulling George out of his thoughts. He clears his throat and awkwardly shuffles together the papers, nodding. 

“Uh yeah. Sure.” He swallows and meticulously stacks the papers into a neat pile, making sure the edges line up. 

“George, c’mon, leave it for now.” Lafayette gently tugs on George’s arm and he goes willingly, sighing. Everything feels hazy, and he tries to breathe through it, knows he’s about two seconds away from having an anxiety attack. 

“I should go check on Lawrence.” Lafayette immediately shakes his head.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, George.” 

“Why?” George follows Lafayette up the stairs and into the kitchen. “He’s been locked in his room all day. I’m worried about him.” 

“I know but…” Lafayette trails off and picks up a mini stapler sitting on the counter, absently fiddling with it. 

“But what?” George prompts as he levers himself onto one of the barstools at the granite island. Lafayette looks up, his expression unreadable. George frowns and drums his fingers on the countertop. “Gilbert.”

“I just think he wants to be alone,” Lafayette says. “Try not to take it personally. The kid’s parents just died, you know?” George clenches his jaw and nods tersely. 

“I know, Gil. I’m not stupid. Just because you have kids and I don’t doesn’t mean that I—”

“Alright, enough of that,” Lafayette cuts him off, setting the stapler back down a little too hard, eyes narrowed. “Don’t put words in my mouth, George.” 

George sighs, chastised. 

Fuck this. 

He turns to stare out the window over the sink, watching the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. Why does everything have to be so hard? 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Lafayette shrugs. 

“It’s fine. I know you’re stressed. You should go lie down actually. Take a nap.” 

“I don’t need to be coddled,” George immediately shoots back. He’s so tired of everyone treating him like he’s about to break. He’s _fine._ This isn’t like Martha. This is fine. Everything is fi—

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” Lafayette says patiently, unbothered. “Go take a nap with Alex, George. You’ll feel better.” 

“I fucking hate that you’re always right.” 

Lafayette smirks and shrugs coyly. “I know. Now, enjoy your nap.” 

“Yeah whatever.” George playfully rolls his eyes and takes the steps two at a time, purposefully ignoring the pictures dotting the wall. 

He goes into the bedroom, wearily kicking his shoes off and flopping down on the bed, and calls Alex. It doesn’t take any convincing to get him to come down and take a nap, and he’s crawling in the bed a few seconds later. They lay there cocooned under the blankets together, and George lets his eyes droop closed. Alex kisses his forehead and curls his hand around the back of George’s neck. His breath is hot against George’s face. 

“You feeling okay, baby?” he whispers. His breath smells like the fruity gum he’s always chewing. George shrugs and yawns, his jaw cracking. 

“I’m fine. Pretty tired, I guess.” 

“You sure? Laf said you seemed anxious.” George bristles and scoffs. 

“I’m _fine._ Gilbert is just being a fucking mother hen.” 

“Okay.” Alex gently squeezes the back of his neck. “But you know if you’re feeling anxious that it’s okay, right?”

“Alex—”

“Just hold on, George. Please,” Alex says, a little irritated. “I know you’ve been doing better lately, like a lot better, but it’s okay if you aren’t doing so hot right now. It’s always okay if you feel anxious or depressed or anything. I’ll never hold it against you.” 

George’s face is burning red and he tries to roll over, but Alex’s arms lock around him, keeping him in place. “Hey, please don’t do that thing where you try to hide from me. I’m worried about you, baby. You’re not talking to me.” 

“Well it’s not like you’re telling me how you feel either,” George says, the words coming out harsher than he intended. He feels Alex tense up, can practically see the wall go up between them. 

“Don’t try to redirect this on me, George. You need to deal with your fucking emotions. I’m just trying to help.” 

“Well I don’t need any, okay?” George snaps, pulling out of Alex’s arms and rolling over. He hears rather than sees Alex roll over beside him. 

“I hate fighting with you about stupid shit like this,” he whispers after several minutes of tense silence. George grinds his teeth.

“I do too.” 

“I’m really fucking scared, George.” Alex rolls over and strokes George’s side, scooting up behind him. “I’m really, _really_ scared.” 

George sighs. Squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m scared too.” He scoots back against Alex, silently inviting him to spoon if he wants. “And anxious.” Alex wiggles his arm around George’s waist and holds him like a teddy bear, squeezing him in a hug. 

“We have to be able to communicate with each other if we’re going to do this.” 

“I know.” George squeezes the hand Alex has resting on his stomach. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, sweetheart.” Alex laughs, a warm puff of air against George’s neck, and squeezes him in another hug. 

“It’s okay.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, and George idly listens to the overhead fan buzzing, accented by the hum of light traffic outside the window. Somewhere in the distance a car horn blares and a dog yaps. He assumes Alex is asleep until he kisses George’s shoulder. “You’re going to make a great dad, you know?” he says softly. George snorts.

“Yeah right. Lawrence fucking hates me.” 

“He’s just scared. He’ll come around.” 

“You sound so sure of yourself,” George says dryly, thinking back to the cold tone Lawrence used with him this morning. He hears Alex quietly sigh behind him. 

“Just trust me. I’m sort of an expert on orphaned kids. What’s the quote? Experience is the best teacher? Because I’ve got a fucking PhD in Sad Orphaned Kids, babe. We’re covered.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God I'll write the wedding fic. I'm working on it rn lmao. 
> 
> In the wake of what happened last weekend, I hope everyone is safe and among friends. If you can, try donating to a Charlottesville charity/organization. I donated to their local NAACP chapter and it made me feel a little better. 
> 
> As always, I love comments and greatly appreciate them!


	3. A Mirror Image

Everything is so fucked up that Alex doesn’t even know which way is up and which way is down anymore. 

He’s standing in a dead woman’s kitchen sipping her dead husband’s bourbon out of a fancy, lowball glass they probably brought out for special occasions. Being dead is special enough, right? 

Alex snorts into the glass and sets it down on the granite countertop with a clink. Damn these Washingtons and their old money. So fucking East Egg that it hurts.

He refills his glass, the honey liquid splashing into the glass. As a precaution, he glances at the stairs, ever conscious of the depressed little boy sleeping upstairs. His fucking child. 

He has a child now. Everything is completely, totally, _aggressively_ fine. 

Except Alex has no idea where George is and it’s almost three in the morning. Tallmadge and Tilghman are also gone. Trumbull won’t tell Alex shit, no matter how many times he asks, so now he’s drinking. Alone. He’s lost track of how long George has been gone. At least a couple of hours now. 

And to think, tonight started out so promising. 

Despite, well, _everything_ , Alex was able to coax George into bed, stripping off his clothes and kissing him all over, worshipping him. He got George nice and open, rubbing little circles into his hips and cooing at him until he relaxed. Alex told him what a sweet, good boy he was being and then George was shoving Alex off of him and swinging his long legs over the bed, snapping at Alex over his shoulder: _“Don’t fucking call me that.”_ Alex tried to ask him what was wrong, but he just got dressed and left the room like a whirlwind. 

Alex throws back his drink and snorts, shaking his head. He calls George ‘good boy’ all the time, knows he likes it. George has a praise thing. It’s cool; Alex likes it. It’s endearing, pretty hot. Sure it probably stems from the fact that George’s parents didn’t love him as a child, but whatever. It’s still hot as shit. 

Alex thought they had a pretty good thing going with their sex life. George is usually on the bottom. Sometimes he’ll plow Alex or let Alex ride him, but for the most part? Alex is on top and George is on the bottom. It works; it’s _good_. Alex has always loved being on top. He never really was a dominate me kind of guy, has always loved fucking the shit out of someone. 

But tonight? Not so much. 

Something is obviously wrong, but George, in typical George Fashion, is bottling it up and putting on some brave face. It’s infuriating. They’re married now. Can’t they just talk stuff out? 

It really can go either way with George. Sometimes he’s open, other times he’s like Fort Knox. Good luck figuring out what the fuck is wrong with him. 

Alex is starting to feel a little sick, nausea churning low in his gut, so he puts the bourbon away and sticks the glass in the sink. Still no sign of George, but he’s the president. It’s not like he can just go wherever. He’s safe. 

Alex curls up alone and tosses and turns in the big bed. He hates sleeping alone. 

He’s about half asleep when the door opens with a creak. The hairs on the back of his neck rise up and he jerks into a sitting position, only relaxing once he sees that it’s just George looking a little worse for wear. He’s drenched in sweat, beads of moisture gleaming on his forehead, and Alex wrinkles his nose.

“Did you go for a run in the middle of the night?” he asks. George nods, not looking at him as he goes into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and Alex can hear his clothes dropping to the ground, the sound of his piss hitting the toilet bowl, the heavy thunk of the shower door, the water rushing through the wall.

George steps back out of the bathroom, naked, and leans against the wall. He sighs through his nose and lets his eyes slide shut. 

“Sorry. I don’t know…” He waves his hand vaguely in the air. “I don’t know what happened earlier.” Alex crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow. 

“You mean when you shouted at me and stormed out?” George winces.

“I didn’t _shout_ —”

“Whatever. Go take your shower. The water’s gonna get cold. I’m going to sleep.” Alex lays back down, his back to George, and tugs the blanket up over his shoulder. 

“Alex,” George pleads, but he just keeps his back turned, unmoving. And sure, he’s being an asshole, but George deserves a taste of his own medicine. Storming out in the middle of the night is so fucking childish. 

He half expects George to try reasoning with him again, but he just shuffles into the bathroom and takes his shower. Alex listens to see if George will talk to Martha but he doesn’t. He never does anymore. Alex can’t help but feel happy about that. 

George comes back out a few minutes later and Alex listens to him get ready for bed. When he climbs on the bed, he keeps his back to Alex. “I love you,” he says over his shoulder before turning the lamp off. Alex is silent, bites his lip. George heaves a sigh. “Look, Alex—”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong,” he says, cutting George off. “I don’t understand what I did or why you left and it’s kind of fucking me up. I’ve said that shit to you during sex like a million times, babe. What’s up with you?” 

“I don’t know.” George heaves a sigh and tentatively reaches out to trail his fingers up and down Alex’s side. He shivers and scoots back, sighing once George wraps him up in his arms. 

“Are you okay? Is it about Lawrence?” George is silent behind him, his breath hot on Alex’s neck. Alex swallows and pats the hand George has palming his stomach. “George?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I think it’s about Lawrence.” 

Alex waits for him to continue, but he just tucks his face into the crook of Alex’s neck and sighs. 

“George,” Alex gently prods. “We need to talk about this. Something’s wrong. I know you.” 

“I just—I feel like I need to be in charge right now. Lawrence deserves a father figure, and, I mean, I don’t really know much about that, but I remember my dad was always the one in charge. Level-headed and strong. I need to be like that for Lawrence.” 

“George, c’mon. To be a good dad all you have to do is love your kid, and I know you’ll love Lawrence just like your own son.” 

“I guess so,” George mumbles. Alex sighs and squeezes George’s hand. 

“Listen, you know that what we do during sex doesn’t mean anything about the kind of person you are, right? Just because you’re on the bottom doesn’t mean that you’re not a good leader or a strong person.” 

“I know. I was being stupid. I’m just feeling… weird.” 

“It’s okay. We should get some sleep, see if you feel better tomorrow.” 

George tightens his arms around Alex and makes a sweet snuffling noise that makes Alex smile. He’s asleep, snoring softly, within a few minutes. 

\---

They finish packing everything up that day, carrying heavy plastic and cardboard boxes out to be loaded onto a truck and put in storage. They hire a professional to come and organize the estate sale, but George is adamant that he wants to handle all the personal stuff himself. 

Alex looks down at the last few boxes full of Christmas decorations and rubs his aching lower back. Angelica arches an eyebrow from her place perched on top of the Christmas tree box. 

“Getting a backache old man?” she teases. Alex narrows his eyes and tapes up a box full of garland. 

“ _No,”_ he mutters. “And you know that you’re older than me, right? So that makes you _extra_ old.” 

“Oh shut up and put that box in the ‘ready’ pile.” 

Alex narrows his eyes but pushes the box to the other side of the room with the rest of the boxes ready to be taken downstairs. 

“I just don’t see why George couldn’t at least hire a _mover_ to help us with this. I mean, I know he’s not too cheap for that. I’ve see our bank account.” Alex drags the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and winces. “I’m fucking drenched in sweat. I can smell myself.” Angelica laughs and stretches her arms over her head. 

“Quit your complaining, Hamilton. You could use some exercise.” Alex plops down on the ground and yawns, glaring up at Angelica. 

“You’re so mean to me.” 

“Yeah I know.” 

Alex shakes his head and tries to stifle another yawn. He’s exhausted, the kind of bone weary tired that makes his eyes hurt and his gut churn with nausea. All he wants is a long nap, but they’ve got a ton of work left to do. The funeral is in two days, and George has to go pick out the coffin and flowers today. 

Angelica nudges his shoulder with the toe of her Adidas sneaker and he looks up irritatedly, brushing his shoulder off. 

“You’re getting shoe dust on my shirt.” Angelica rolls her eyes. 

“Sorry, princess,” she teases. “You look sad. Is everything okay?” 

“You mean aside from the fact that I have a son now? Who won’t even look at me? Or the fact that my husband is depressed as fuck and won’t talk to me about it? Yeah, I’m okay.” Alex shrugs and holds his hands up as if to say _“what can you do about it?”_ Angelica winces.

“I’m sorry,” she says a little awkwardly, looking away to study the wall. “Is there anything I can do? Laf and I can gang up on George and get him to talk. Laf is great at that.” 

Alex heaves a sigh and rubs his aching eyes. 

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m just waiting for him to break. Then he’ll get it all out and start feeling better. It’ll happen sooner or later.” 

Angelica nods thoughtfully and twists the cap off her water bottle. “How’s Lawrence? I haven’t even seen him yet.” She tips her head back and chugs some of the water before passing it to Alex. He nods thankfully and takes a few sips. 

“I’ve barely seen him. He’s been locked in his room, supposedly packing, but I can’t imagine he’s actually packing anything up. I know that I sure as hell didn’t want to pack up my room after my mom died. I begged them not to make me do it. It was too real, you know? I knew that, once I packed everything up, the life I knew would be gone.” Angelica blinks, just watching him, staring, and he feels his face heat up. “Sorry,” he chuckles awkwardly. “I don’t talk about my childhood much.” Angelica shakes her head quickly. 

“No, no. It’s fine. I just, yeah. You’ve never really talked about it before.” 

“My mom died and my life was turned upside down. There’s really not much to tell. Plus, it doesn’t come up in conversation often. No one likes hearing my sad, orphaned kid sob-story.” 

“I think it’s interesting. It…” Angelica trails off, tapping her chin like she’s looking for the right words. She looks him in the eye, her expression unreadable, and Alex has to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. The way Angelica is looking at him—it’s like she can see straight through him. It feels like she’s drilling him open, excavating his carefully guarded core: Just a little boy with nothing but a stack of books and some ratty clothes to his name. Alex has to look away when she speaks again. “It shows your resilience.” Her voice is reverent and the words settle heavy and meaningful in the air. Alex blinks back a sudden rush of tears.

“Thanks—”

“Hey y’all,” George suddenly calls up the stairs. “You finished up there?” Alex and Angelica both hop up and look around the piles of boxes, a little flustered. Alex blinks and tries to shake off the feeling of whatever just passed between them. This is why he doesn’t talk about his fucking childhood. 

Angelica is the first one to find her voice, and she sounds surprisingly level when she speaks.

“Yeah. We’ll start bringing the boxes down right now. It’s all Christmas stuff. We’ve got them labeled.” 

“Thanks. The truck’s waiting outside.” George’s footsteps retreat and Alex hastily bends down to pick up a box labeled ‘ornaments.’ The ornaments clink and rattle as he hoists the box into his arms, grunting. 

“Fuck this is heavy. Why do people always have so many fucking Christmas ornaments.” Angelica smiles and picks up the garland box. 

“People are sentimental. Especially these damn Washingtons. I think they keep everything.” Alex laughs and nods, thankful that the awkwardness between them has passed.

“Yeah they sure are,” he says over his shoulder as he starts carefully making his way down the narrow stairs that lead up to the attic. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and he itches to wipe it away. Thank God he and George won’t have to move anything when they leave the White House. This shit is awful. 

George is downstairs in the kitchen guzzling a glass of water and he waves as Alex comes down the main staircase, desperately trying to ignore the way his arms are trembling. “Hey babe,” Alex says through gritted teeth. “Can you help me with this box? I’m weak as fuck apparently.” George laughs and smiles fondly before coming over and effortlessly taking the box, arm muscles rippling. 

“You’re always welcome to work out with me,” he teases as he carries the box outside without even batting an eye. Fuck healthy people. 

Alex sighs and leans back against the island, taking a few deep breaths before heading back upstairs to move more boxes. 

Maybe he _should_ work out more often.

\---

Almost 30 minutes later the boxes are all packed onto the truck. All that’s left is Lawrence’s room. They’re all standing outside his door in a loose semicircle: Alex, George, Angelica, and Laf. Just staring, unmoving. Alex rolls his eyes and gestures to Lawrence’s door.

“We have to knock eventually. We can’t keep standing here,” he hisses, keeping his voice low. George’s jaw ticks but he keeps his expression neutral. 

“I think it’s best if it’s just Alex and me,” he whispers. “Gil, Angelica, do you guys mind maybe heading upstairs or something? I don’t want to spook him.” Lafayette and Angelica both nod and silently go upstairs, leaving him and George standing outside Lawrence’s door. George nervously shifts his weight. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.” He chuckles and wipes his palms off on his pants, and Alex’s face softens into a look he hopes isn’t too pitying. 

“George, baby, it’ll be fine. Just knock.” 

George looks a little like he might throw up as he leans forward and raps his knuckles on the thick, wooden door. 

“Hey Lawrence,” he says softly. “We need to start moving your boxes to the truck. Are you ready?” George steps back from the door and absently wipes sweat off his forehead. For some reason, nerves are starting to churn in Alex’s gut and he swallows down the uneasy feeling creeping up his throat. 

There’s a faint rustling on the other side of the door, the click of a lock, and then the door’s swinging open. Lawrence stands there glaring at them, clad in a pair of shorts and a well-worn 49ers jersey. Alex can see into the room behind him and there’s no sign that he’s done any packing. The boxes are sitting empty in the middle of the room, and Alex winces when he sees George’s jaw tighten. 

“I’m not leaving,” Lawrence says evenly, eyes flashing. “And you can’t make me.” George stiffens, his whole body tensing up.

“Lawrence, you have to leave. C’mon, do you want some help packing up your room? You were supposed to have this finished. I know this is hard and scary, but you have to come with us so we can take care of you.” 

“I don’t have to do anything you say,” Lawrence spits, balling his fists at his side. “And I’m not leaving. This is my house. My friends are here. I don’t want to go live in the stupid White House with you!” Lawrence’s lower lip is starting to tremble and Alex’s chest aches. If he closes his eyes, he can picture himself standing in that doorway. Beside him, George inhales sharply. 

“Lawrence,” he says again, a pleading edge to his tone. “It’ll be okay. You’ll make new friends, and we’ll come and visit Sacramento as much as you want. I promise. I know you’re scared, son—”

“No, don’t call me that!” Lawrence shouts as a few tears run down his reddening cheeks. “You’re not my fucking dad so stop acting like it!” Lawrence’s breath hitches and Alex watches as snot oozes down his upper lip. He distantly wonders where Lawrence learned to talk like that, but pushes the thought away when he hears George suck in a ragged breath. 

“Fine,” he says stiffly. “I’ll get someone to come in and pack your room up for you if you won’t do it yourself.” 

“Fuck you,” Lawrence snarls before slamming the door in their faces, the sound echoing. 

Alex stands there staring at the door, his brain a few seconds behind him, like he’s watching a video and the feed is lagging. 

He snaps out of it when George turns on his heel and stomps out of the room, going upstairs and slamming the bedroom door. 

Perfect. 

Alex has no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to do, and he gives Lafayette and Angelica a tired smile when they tiptoe back downstairs. 

“Hey, we’re going to head back to the hotel,” Lafayette says quietly, almost apologetically, which is funny because what the fuck does he have to be sorry about? Alex sighs and nods.

“Alright. I’ll… keep you updated.” 

They both nod at him before leaving, murmuring quietly to each other. Alex sighs, belatedly realizing that he’s still standing in front of Lawrence’s door. It’s so eery, watching the mirror image of his own life play out in front of him. 

Except Alex didn’t have someone who cared about him to take him in. His uncle was no George Washington. Poor fucker. Offed himself while Alex was at school. It was pretty cruel looking back on it, forcing a kid to have to come home and find his guardian laying in a puddle of his own coagulating blood. Alex blinks hard, trying to dispel the image. It’s not something he likes to dwell on. 

He wearily pinches the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the headache that’s been building behind his eyes all day. 

If he listens quietly, he can hear Lawrence sniffling and stifling sobs through the door, and it makes Alex’s stomach hurt. Poor kid. 

Apparently his body is still way ahead of his brain, because, before he cognitively knows what he’s doing, he’s knocking on Lawrence’s door and calling his name. 

All he gets in return is an annoyed huff and a snarled _“what?”_

Alex takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, surprised to find it unlocked. Lawrence must’ve forgotten to lock it again. 

Lawrence is sitting in his bed, head bowed, and he immediately looks up when Alex slips in, red eyes widening. His face settles into a hard mask and he practically bears his teeth like a rabid dog. Alex takes a steadying breath and motions to the edge of the bed. 

“Can I sit?” 

He can tell that the question takes Lawrence by surprise because he just nods, eyes widening again. Alex smiles and sits down, the mattress dipping under his weight. 

He takes a few minutes to look around the room, smiling when he sees the sports memorabilia covering the walls, a hodgepodge of different California teams: 49ers, Lakers, Sharks. There are a few framed pictures of Lawrence looking grim and tough in a maroon football uniform with the word Nighthawks emblazoned on the jersey. Alex points at the picture. “Is that your school football team?” Lawrence looks up, his expression unreadable, and nods. 

“Yeah. I play for the junior high team. Starting running back.” Lawrence shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but Alex can hear the pride in his voice. 

“That’s really cool. I suck at sports.” Alex laughs and shifts a little on the bed, getting more comfortable. “George is really good at sports, though. He played basketball in college.” Lawrence nods, obviously trying to feign disinterest. 

“That’s cool. My dad played football. He’s the one who taught me. He was a coach.” Lawrence blinks and looks away. “They’re gonna have to get a new coach now. And a new running back.” Alex frowns and nervously picks at a loose string on the duvet. 

“You know you can play football in D.C. too. We’ll find you a school where you can play. You can get a starting position, or whatever.” Alex shrugs and laughs a little awkwardly. God he sucks at this. He can’t have a kid. He’s _clearly_ not cut out for the whole parenting thing—

“That would be nice,” Lawrence says softly. 

Alex tenses up, mouth opening in surprise. 

“Yeah? I definitely think it would be pretty cool, and George and I would come to all your games to watch you. The whole Secret Service thing might be a bit of a drag for the other fans, but who cares about them, you know.” 

“That sounds cool—having the president at my football games.” Lawrence folds his hands in his lap. “Do you think he hates me?” 

“Who? George?” 

Lawrence gives Alex a tiny nod and stares at his lap. Alex slowly reaches over and pats his leg over the blanket. “Not at all. He loves you. You’re his family.” 

“I yelled at him though. And cursed. My mom would be so mad. She doesn’t—didn’t—know I knew those words.” 

“I’ve cursed at George like a million times. He can take it,” Alex says a little teasingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Lawrence nods and Alex is rewarded with a small smile. He takes a deep breath and squeezes Lawrence’s leg again. “Look, Lawrence, I know how it feels to lose your parents. My dad split when I was little and then my mom died when I was a teenager. It sucks, but you’ve gotta cut George some slack. He’s really trying. He just… He doesn’t always know how to express himself, but I promise that he really cares about you and how you’re feeling. Give him a chance, alright? Because pushing away the people close to you is just gonna make you feel more alone. Trust me.” 

Lawrence is looking at him with wide, sad eyes, and Alex suddenly feels uncomfortable, like he shared too much. He desperately wishes he could retract what he just said, but then Lawrence is rubbing his eyes and reaching out for Alex, and _fuck_ Alex has never felt like this before—such an intense need to protect someone.

He climbs into the bed and pulls Lawrence against his chest, rubbing his back as he cries, his tears soaking Alex’s shirt. 

“I miss my mom and dad,” he cries, and Alex hugs him closer, burying his face in Lawrence’s curly hair. 

“I know sweetie,” he says, and what the _fuck._ He feels like a mother in some 90s family sitcom, comforting the kid in the intense, climactic moment in the episode.

Maybe, after all this is over, he’ll reflect on how he likes this whole comforting thing, but for now he just holds Lawrence close and blinks back tears when he thinks about how fucking badly he misses his own mother. 

Lawrence cries for what feels like forever. When his sobs finally start to taper off into quiet hiccups, Alex gets a washcloth to clean up his face and tells him to go take a nap in the living room, asks twice if he’s really okay with Alex and George packing up his room for him. 

He just gives Alex a sad, resigned look and nods, looking way too old for 12 years old. Death will do that to you—age you. 

Alex does his best to excise the smugness in his voice when he calls George to inform him that he convinced Lawrence to let them pack up his room, knows that it would only hurt George’s feelings. 

They work diligently and quietly, silently communicating, occasionally asking a quiet question about where this or that should go. 

After about an hour they decide to take a break and Alex recounts what happened with Lawrence, smiles shyly when George kisses him and tells him how great that is. 

It feels good knowing that he actually did something right. 

And sure, things are still absolutely fucked, because George is like an active volcano waiting to erupt and Alex really doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing.

But right now? 

Right now it seems like everything could turn out okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is such a sweetie :')
> 
> Hope y'all are enjoying this!! Sorry there's not much politics in this one. Low key just thought up a super good plot for a politics-centered fic for this verse so... look out for that.
> 
> I started school today (fml) so life is going to be busy af, but I'm gonna still make time to write! So glad I'm getting back into this verse!
> 
> Comments are much appreciated!


	4. Mount St. Helens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends this chapter is long and emo. TW for death, funerals, anxiety, the f-slur, etc. Proceed with caution. 
> 
> Sorry for the poorly executed volcano metaphor. 
> 
> I mention HPSCI in the beginning. That's the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. Pronounced hip-see. 
> 
> Okay anyway enjoy!

“Alex, man, I really think it would help if you answered just a few questions. The press corps is chomping at the bit to get a statement from you or the president. Preferably both, but I’ve told them not to get their hopes up.” 

Alex sighs irritatedly as Toby meets him at the door, effectively ambushing him. The hotel lobby is bustling with a mixture of Secret Service agents and staffers, and Alex strides through the crowd, headed toward the conference room. Toby is practically jogging alongside him and Alex slows his pace just a little. 

“Look, Toby,” he says as he finally turns to address the frazzled press secretary. “I get that the press is interested in this story, but it’s personal. George and I aren’t obligated to report on family matters. Lawrence is just a kid—a kid with dead parents. I’m not going to subject him to media scrutiny.” Alex pauses outside the conference room door and rubs his eyes. “Is that all?” Toby sighs and nods tersely. 

“Yeah. I’ll try to hold them off a little longer, but they’re going to start digging sooner or later. Calling up his school and shit. It’s better that you make a statement now, get everything straight. My staff is being fucking bombarded.” 

“Okay, well, that’s not really my problem, is it?” Alex snaps. 

Christ he sounds like such an asshole. 

He claps Toby on the back and tries to soften his tone. Compromise. “Alright, how about this: I’ll talk to a press gaggle, but nothing on camera. Keep it unofficial. I’ll take a few questions and that’ll be it. How’s that sound?” Toby smiles in relief, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes thrown into sharp relief. 

“Sounds great. Can you do it after the briefing?” 

“Yeah. Thanks for the good work, Toby.” Alex nods one last time before going into the conference room, muttering a quick apology when he sees that everyone else is already seated. 

George’s sister’s funeral is this afternoon, but presidents don’t get days off, so here they are. Alex collapses down in his chair and gratefully accepts the paper cup of coffee Angelica hands him. Timothy Pickering, George’s National Security Advisor, is seated at the head of the table and he looks up from the thick document in front of him. 

“Good morning everyone,” he says, and Alex almost laughs out loud. 5 a.m. isn’t morning; it’s practically the middle of the night. And nothing is good about today, but he just guzzles some of his coffee and stifles a yawn. 

“What’ve you got for me, Tim?” George asks. He sounds fucking exhausted.

Alex could use a tall glass of bourbon right about now. Drinking at 5 a.m. is perfectly respectable, right? 

Pickering shuffles his papers and sits up a little straighter, adjusting his red tie. A fucking power tie. How douchey. 

“Well, in response to our recent sanctions, Russia seems to be moving closer to Iran. The intelligence community is worried that they’re on the way to forming an alliance. We know that they’ve been sharing weapons technology with each other, and our source inside the Kremlin told us that Putin secretly met with Khamenei last week.”

“In person?” George asks, dark eyebrows furrowed. Pickering nods and George sighs loudly through his nose. 

“Great. Is State on this? I want Randolph meeting with Foreign Minister Zarif ASAP. Why the fuck haven’t we done anything about this yet? If Iran violates the nuclear treaty…” George trails off and shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’d be pressured into taking military action, which is the last fucking thing I want to do.” 

Pickering swallows and nods. “Of course, Sir. I’ll talk to Randolph and see what they’re doing at State.” 

“And what about Defense? What’s Knox think about all this?”

“He thinks we should just wait it out and see if Russia makes another move.” 

“Alright.” George sighs wearily and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want State and Defense working together on this. And I’d like you to read in the members of HPSCI and the Senate Intelligence Committee.” Pickering scrawls some notes down in his notebook and keeps nodding.

“Of course, Sir.” Pickering looks up, straightens his cuffs. George taps his pen on the table. 

“Alright, is that all?” he asks, looking around the room. Everyone glances at each other and nods. “Perfect.” George shoves his chair back and grabs his copy of the briefing. “I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” 

Everyone scrambles to stand as George strides out of the room, dress shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Alex immediately hurries out after him, but he’s stopped by a hand grabbing his arm and tugging him to a halt. He groans in frustration and turns to see Toby smiling sheepishly. 

“Sorry,” he says as he motions to a loose group of reporters from the traveling press corps. They glance at Alex eagerly, already fiddling with their tape recorders. Jesus fuck Alex hates dealing with the press. 

“Right. Almost forgot,” Alex mutters as he makes his way over to the gaggle. Cameras instantly start clicking and he winces. He hasn’t had a chance to shower yet and knows his hair looks like shit. He forces himself to smile and absently tucks a loose piece of hair behind his ear. “Uh hey everyone. I heard you’ve got some questions for me?” 

Julia Pace with the Associated Press nods and steps forward. “Can you just clarify what’s going on for us? You and the president are now legal guardians of Betty Washington’s son, Lawrence, correct?” 

Alex doesn’t get paid enough for this shit. 

He grits his teeth and nods. “Yep, but we’d prefer to keep Lawrence out of the press. He’s just a kid and this is a really difficult time for him, so we’d appreciate it if everyone respected his privacy.” 

“Can I ask a follow up?” Julia asks quickly, and Alex nods. Why the fuck not? She’s probably going to ask anyway. 

“Sure,” he sighs. 

“Lawrence is going to be living in the White House and attending school in D.C., right?” 

“Seeing as he’s our kid, of course he’s going to live with us at the White House. Where else would he live?” Alex huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Look, this is a tough time for my family, and we would like some time to grieve privately. I know that’s a bizarre concept—privacy—but it’s pretty neat. How about you guys try it out.” Alex turns on his heel and strides off, fists balled at his sides. 

He can’t fucking wait for these headlines: “Top aide and first gentleman has a piss baby meltdown during a press gaggle” 

_Fuck._

It’s fine. 

\---

They get back to the house to find Trumbull, who so graciously stayed behind to keep an eye on Lawrence, sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal. He smiles sheepishly and stands up when George and Alex walk in.

“Sorry. I got hungry,” he says, hastily taking his bowl to the sink. George just waves his hand dismissively. 

“It’s fine. Is Lawrence up? We need to get ready for the funeral soon.” Trumbull shakes his head as he rinses his bowl out. 

“I think he’s still asleep. I haven’t heard him moving around yet.” Trumbull straps his holster back on and flashes them a smile before going outside to assume his position. George sighs and leans back against the counter, his eyes slipping closed. 

“I really don’t want to do this, Alex. I’m so fucking tired of going to funerals.” 

“I know.” Alex bites his lip and walks over to George, squeezing his bicep in a way he hopes is comforting. “It’s gonna be okay, though. We’ll get through it.” George just sighs and lets his head fall back against the cabinets with a soft thunk. 

This close, Alex can clearly see the wrinkles at the corner of George’s eyes. He looks exhausted, older than his 40 years would suggest. He’s aged well, but Alex can tell that the presidency, coupled with everything else, is taking its toll. 

Alex grazes George’s cheek with the back of his hand and smiles when he opens his eyes. He’ll never get tired of looking into George’s eyes. Alex stands up on his tip-toes and presses a kiss to the corner of George’s mouth. “Hey,” he whispers against George’s lips. “Everything’s going to be okay, baby. We’ll be okay.” 

“You don’t know that,” George whispers back, and Alex has no fucking idea why they’re whispering except for the fact that it seems to fit the moment. 

George turns his head as his breath hitches and a tear runs down his cheek.

And here comes Mount St. Helens. 

George’s bottom lip starts to tremble and Alex grabs his hand, already tugging him toward the stairs. 

Alex barely gets him through the door before he sobs, and in a way it’s a fucking relief to finally have George break down. He’s tired of waiting around for it. 

He gets George into the bed and wraps him up in a hug, rubbing his back, trying to keep him grounded. Minimize the panic. 

“You’re okay, sweetie. I’m right here,” Alex says in his ear, voice low and even. “It’s okay.” 

George just shakes his head and sobs again, a wet choking sound that makes Alex’s chest ache. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages to pant out. “I just really don’t think I can do this. I’m not ready to be a father. I can’t even take care of myself. How the fuck am I supposed to take care of a child?” George’s breath hitches and he fists his hands in Alex’s shirt. “I’m not man enough or strong enough—I just really can’t do it. I’ve never been good enough to do anything in my entire fucking life, don’t know why everyone just expects that to change.” George pulls on Alex’s shirt in an attempt to get closer, and Alex has to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat, furiously blinking back a wave of tears. There’s no way in hell he’s about to start crying too. 

Except then George whimpers and Alex swears his stupid heart is breaking in half. He never used to be this _mushy, emotional, sentimental—_ a host of adjectives readily present themselves, but none of them really seem to fit. Whatever he’s feeling, all he knows is that he wants to protect George, but you can’t protect someone from what’s inside their own head. 

Alex knows George well enough to see that he’s slipping into that other place—the place where he sees his father looming over him, reeking of alcohol, fists raised like a champion boxer. Alex knows he’s probably got his mother’s voice on repeat in his head, a broken record, taunting him because he’s gay and sensitive and half the man his brother ever was. 

And Alex feels fucking powerless because he doesn’t really know what to say. You can only tell someone that they’re good and special and loved so many times before it becomes overkill, just empty words that don’t penetrate the subconscious. 

It’s just so easy to forget sometimes—the pain George carries around inside—because he’s been doing so well. He’s happy, doesn’t wake up gasping from nightmares or have panic attacksanymore. And _fuck_ it was so naive of him to just assume that George was healed, but it’s just _so damn easy_. If George is healed, if he’s better, then they don’t have to deal with it anymore. They can live on in happy, domestic bliss, but Alex is seeing it now, the subtle little signs that maybe George has been feeling this all along. And he tries not to blame himself, but guilt is twisting in his gut and he feels nauseous because he didn’t notice it until now: The insecurity, the doubt, the shame. The way George tenses up every time Alex whispers ‘good boy’ in his ear and looks away when Alex praises him. It’s so fucking stupid, so antiquated, but Alex can’t blame George. Getting told that you’re a little faggot—not a man like your brother—by your own mother is bound to have some fucked up, psychological effects later in life. Freud is probably throwing a party in hell right now. 

George keeps crying and Mount St. Helens keeps erupting, spewing hot lava and ash as guilt continues winding itself around Alex like a serpentine monster. 

_It’s all your fucking fault you asshole_ , one side of his brain tells him. But then the defensive part of his brain interjects that _no it’s not your fault. George should’ve said something. He never talks to you about anything,_ and Alex hates them both because it’s all so shitty. 

So Alex just lays there holding George, paralyzed by guilt, trying to hide the tears running down his face. 

\---

They don’t talk as they shower. George doesn’t even fucking look at him as they get dressed, winding ties around their necks and shrugging on their jackets. He keeps his head down as they get Lawrence from his room, looking sad and beaten down in his suit. Alex distantly wonders why a 12 year old boy has a suit, but then remembers that he’s probably been networking since the second grade. 

The three of them file into the car and Alex squeezes Lawrence’s knee, just letting him know that he’s not alone. He looks up at Alex with wide, dark brown eyes, and he almost chokes because there’s that _feeling_ again: The sense of deja vu, like he’s looking in a mirror. Watching a movie about his own life. He tries to smile encouragingly but doesn’t know if he really manages it. Right now, he feels like he may never smile again. Funerals are always so depressing. His mother’s funeral is still so vivid in his own mind that it hurts. The sad, cheap coffin that her pitiful life insurance policy barely covered. The single, ugly bouquet of flowers at the front of the room. The dank, drafty chapel with its creepy, unnecessarily graphic painting of Jesus Christ pinned up on the cross hanging above the dais. 

Alex is hit with a wave of heat as his stomach lurches and he squeezes his fists, takes a deep breath. 

George must notice because he reaches over and grabs Alex’s hand, and Alex smiles to himself because, even when it doesn’t seem like it, George is here for him. 

\---

Most of the funeral attendees are friends of Betty and Fielding’s and some of Lawrence’s friends from school, and they all eye George warily. Skittish, hesitant, as if he might bite them.

George and Alex slowly walk around the room, greeting people and making idle small talk. 

_“Betty was such a sweet girl. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. President.”_

_“I can’t imagine losing a sibling. Were you two close?”_

_“How’s Lawrence? He’s such a nice, handsome boy. I feel so bad for him.”_

George gives them halfhearted, mumbled answers as he stares at a point past their heads, eyes unfocused and glazed over. 

They slowly walk into the chapel and Alex winces when he sees that it’s open casket. George turns to him and heaves a sigh. 

“They specified open casket in their wills,” he says dully, and Alex just swallows and nods. He’s never quite understood the point of an open casket, but whatever. 

George stares down into the coffins and inhales sharply, tightening his grip on Alex’s hand to the point that it hurts. Alex instinctively tries to pull his hand away, hissing in pain.

“George, what’s wrong?” he whispers, startled. George just shakes his head and reaches out to the brush aside his sister’s hair with his fingers. 

“They parted her hair on the wrong side.” He barks out a hysterical laugh and rubs his eyes. “She always parted her hair to the right. Always, ever since she was a kid. I can’t believe they parted her hair on the wrong side.” 

Alex stares down at Betty and winces when he sees the bolt holding her head in place. Fielding has one too, and Alex hopes Lawrence doesn’t notice them. 

But of course he does. When he walks up and joins them, he makes a little shocked, gasping sound and turns his head. 

“Why do they look like that?” he asks tearfully, looking up at Alex. “That’s not, that doesn’t even look like my mom.” Alex opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say. He’s so fucking bad at this—

“I know, buddy,” George says hoarsely, turning to look at Lawrence with wet, shining eyes. “Just don’t look, okay? Try to remember what they looked like when they were alive. Your mom had such a big, pretty smile. Think about her smile, okay?” George’s voice breaks and he clears his throat, embarrassed. 

Except then Lawrence is throwing his arms around George and burying his face in his chest. George looks momentarily taken aback before he wraps his arms around Lawrence and squeezes him in a hug. 

They stand there like that at the front of the room, and Alex steps away, going to join Lafayette in the front row of seats. He senses that this isn’t his moment. George and Lawrence are the only ones who really knew Betty, who shared the same genes.

So Alex sits there in his seat and stares at the beautiful, stained glass window he just noticed is behind the dais, losing himself in the intricate designs. He wonders how long it took the artist to make it. Do they know it’s in a funeral home? That dead people sit encased in boxes right underneath it? 

He hopes they don’t. 

\---

The wake is long. The service is short. It’s how funerals always are. 

They ride to the graveside service with the rapidly dwindling crowd. Only close friends are left aside from them and the Secret Service. Quite a rag-tag group of people. 

A single violinist plays a mournful song, all low notes in a minor key, as the coffins are lowered into the ground. George makes another short speech, and Lawrence clings to him the entire time, holding his hand. They go up and sprinkle dirt on the coffins together, and afterward, George kneels down to Lawrence’s level and wraps him up in a tight hug. It makes Alex’s chest tighten and he has to swallow past a lump in his throat. 

The ride back to Betty’s house for the reception is short and they arrive first. Laf and Angelica help them lay out the food—barbecue because Christ these Washingtons are Southern as fuck—and wait around for the other guests to arrive. 

It’s pretty fucking depressing the way they all just awkwardly stand around picking at the food. Alex convinces George to eat some macaroni and cheese, gently asks him to put down what Alex thinks is his third glass of bourbon. 

After a while they start cleaning up, subtly signaling to the other guests that this little sad ass shindig is over. Alex all but tells one couple to leave, his tone bordering on bitchy and rude. 

Soon it’s just the three of them—Angelica and Lafayette go back to the hotel—and Alex collapses down on the big sectional sofa after changing into a t-shirt and shorts.

“Hey George, you wanna watch a movie or something?” he calls out, impulsive. They could use some down time, something to keep their minds off, well, everything. George walks into the room, glasses perched low on his nose, and shrugs.

“I guess,” he sighs. “I could probably use some—I need to do something mindless.” Alex nods and pulls one of the decorative pillows into his lap.

“Come lay down, baby.” 

George smiles tiredly and eagerly stretches out, laying his head in Alex’s lap, shifting around and getting comfortable.

“I love you,” he whispers, and Alex gently caresses his cheek. 

“I love you too.” He flips the T.V. on and starts flipping through the channel guide. Lawrence must hear them because he sticks his head into the room and bites his lip. 

“Can I watch too?” he asks hesitantly. Alex nods eagerly and pats the space on the other side of him. 

“Of course, honey. Come help us pick out something to watch.” Lawrence bites his lip again, eyes flickering back to the hallway as if he’s contemplating his escape, before his expression settles into something close to determination. 

“Okay.” Then, smiling slyly. “Can we watch an R-rated movie?” 

Alex raises his eyebrows as Lawrence tucks himself under his arm, laying his head on Alex’s shoulder. George cranes his head back and narrows his eyes, a playful smile on his face. 

“Yeah, nice try,” he teases, and he sounds happier than he has in days. Lawrence makes a huffing noise and shrugs. 

“What about PG-13? My mom and dad let me watch those.” 

“Considering you know the f-word, I guess a PG-13 movie won’t be the worst thing you’ve ever seen,” Alex says, squeezing Lawrence in a hug. He laughs, and Alex realizes that this is the first time he’s heard Lawrence laugh. It’s a good laugh, boisterous and loud. It reminds him of George’s laugh. 

“How about 7 Years in Tibet?” George asks. “I think you’d like that one.” 

Alex turns and watches as Lawrence purses his lips, thinking. 

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a true story about this mountain climber who meets the Dalai Lama. It’s set during China’s takeover of Tibet. It’s a great historical drama.” 

“George,” Alex interjects, “not everyone is a nerd like y—”

“I think it sounds cool,” Lawrence says decisively. “I like history stuff.” 

Alex can practically feel the excitement radiating off George. 

Poor kid, he has no idea what he’s just gotten himself into. George can talk about history for _hours_. He shakes his head and clicks over to Netflix. He always thought Apple T.V. was a little too bourgeois for his taste, but this shit is pretty nice. 

He gets the movie started and squeezes George’s waist affectionately. 

Of course, they don't even get three minutes in before Lawrence starts asking questions— _where’s Tibet? What does the Dalai Lama do? Why was China taking over Tibet?_ —and George answers them all in depth, pausing the movie each time. 

At this rate they’ll never finish the fucking movie, but Alex doesn’t really mind, because sure everything is still completely fucked up—George has some serious problems to work out, Lawrence is about to leave his entire life behind, and Alex still has no idea what he’s doing—but right now they feel like a real family. 

Alex has never had a real family before. 

It feels pretty damn good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK how I feel about this chapter so legit let me know if it sucks. 
> 
> Things seem okay but lmao nah, shit will be re-hitting the fan soon enough (it always is with me). 
> 
> Hope everyone is keeping the people of Texas in their thoughts. 
> 
> But yeah yell at me in the comments, tell me I suck, etc.


	5. The Art of the Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the title of the chapter is the same as President Scary Orange Man's book. It's a good title. Fuck Trump. 
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter but I like it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Alex is sitting on the hard, compact sand where the tide can come up and tickle him with its gentle, lapping ripples, cleaning his sand-incrusted feet. The Caribbean Sea stretches out endlessly in front of him until it meets the sky and disappears into oblivion. It’s impossible to describe the sea; no color really seems to fit. Azure, turquoise, cerulean. None of them capture the certain mixture of light and dark water, broken by the cresting white caps in the distance. 

Behind him, his mother is pulling her fingers through his tangled wet hair, humming a soft song that Alex doesn’t recognize. 

Everything is so peaceful and he can feel himself nodding off—

Alex wakes with a start—momentarily disoriented as he hears a car rattling down the street outside the window—to the feeling of George’s lips on his neck. It takes him a few seconds to realize that George is rubbing up against Alex, his erection poking Alex’s thigh. He blinks and gropes around, finally managing to grab George’s bicep.

“George? What’re you doing? It’s”—Alex glances at the clock—“almost four in the morning. Shouldn’t you be asleep?” George huffs a laugh, a warm rush of air against Alex’s neck that makes him shiver, and rolls them over until he’s hovering over Alex, bulky erection pressed into Alex’s hipbone. 

“What? Can’t we have sex in the middle of the night?” he asks, playfully nipping Alex’s neck. “I wanna fuck you, Alexander. I haven’t fucked you in so long.” George’s voice is velvety smooth in Alex’s ear, and he shakes his head, desperately trying to focus on something other than the way George is grinding down on his leg, but that’s easier said than done and Alex feels himself hardening in his boxers. 

“Fuck, George, cut it out,” he hisses. “We have to be up in like two hours to go home. I need sleep. _You_ need sleep.” 

“Don’t worry; I’ll be quick, baby,” George whispers, and Alex tenses up, arching his back as George grinds his hand down on Alex’s cock. Alex gasps and pushes at George’s chest again. He can feel himself losing control of the situation, and he struggles to ignore the need burning hot in his belly. 

“No, George,” he says firmly. “I need you to stop. I’m asking you to stop, okay?” 

Above him, George sighs and rolls off him, collapsing down on the bed with a loud sigh. They lay there quietly, chests heaving as they catch their breath. 

“Sorry,” George finally whispers. “That was…” He trails off and sighs again. Alex bites his lip and stares at the ceiling, eyes straining in the dark.

“Is everything okay, George?” Alex finally asks. “That wasn’t—you don’t normally act like that.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Does it have anything to do with what you told me yester—”

“ _No,_ ” George snaps, sitting up and balling his fists in his lap. “What? I can’t want to fuck you now without it being some fucked up psychological thing. Jesus, Alex. It makes me feel like shit when you do stuff like this.” George swings his long legs off the bed. “I’m going downstairs.” 

“No you’re not,” Alex shoots back, grabbing him by the back of his t-shirt. “You’re going to lay right here and we’re going to talk. Why are you so fucking angry all the time?” 

Alex lets go of his shirt and George stays sitting on the edge of the bed, hunching his shoulders. 

“I already told you that I don’t know,” he mutters.

“Okay, well, can you please tell me what I’m doing to piss you off so much. Because I guess I’m going to keep making you feel like shit if you don’t tell me what the fuck is wrong.” 

“You just—you make me feel like everything I do is because I’m fucked up. Like, ‘oh, poor George waking up to fuck me in the middle of the night. Must be because his daddy beat him.’” George laughs, unkind, and shakes his head. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t trust me to be able to handle anything.” 

Alex winces and blinks back the tears that prick at the corners of his eyes. 

“George,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I don’t… I promise I don’t see you that way. I know you can handle things. I just get frustrated when you don’t talk to me about what you’re feeling. It makes it hard to know what’s going on.” 

“I know, but can’t you see how this makes my entire fucking life feel like one big therapy session.” George turns to look at him and his eyes are shining. “It’s taken me so long to move past the… _things_ my parents did to me, and you treating me like I’m made of glass makes me feel like I haven’t made any progress at all. I mean, I’m 40 years old, Alex. I’d like to think that I’ve moved past the fact that my parents fucking abused me.” 

Alex holds his arms open for George, silently pleading with his eyes. He needs to hold George, needs to remind him that it’s okay, that Alex loves him. 

George just looks at him as he tries to hide the tear that slides down his cheek.

“George,” Alex whispers. “Please.” George’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and he crawls back into the bed, easing into Alex’s arms. Alex buries his face in George’s neck and squeezes him in a hug. “I’m so fucking sorry, George.”

“I’m sorry too.” 

A beat of tense silence.

“Are we good?” 

George just nods. Alex tries to ignore the guilt. 

*******

George takes a long shower, lets Alex slip in with him because he wants to hold him. 

At one point Alex starts groping around for George’s cock but he stops him, murmuring in his ear that he just wants to hold him right now. 

So they stand there under the hot spray of the water clinging to each other, George’s chin resting on the top of Alex’s head. 

“I love you,” he whispers, squeezing Alex a little tighter. He feels like all they’ve done is fight lately. It’s not in a we-shouldn’t-be-married-I-want-a-divorce kind of way. George isn’t worried about losing Alex, not anymore, at least. He’s more worried about himself because damn he’s been acting like such an asshole lately.

He’s just so _angry_. All the fucking time. 

Stressed, angry, exhausted. 

He can feel himself slipping and he doesn’t really know what to do about it. 

All he knows is that Lawrence is scared and needs George to be there for him. 

They get out of the shower and dress in silence, packing up the rest of their stuff and handing it off to be taken to the car. Lawrence is still locked in his room, has been all day, and George is filled with a sense of dread. 

He was up reading articles on kids who lose parents last night. Mood swings, depression, getting in fights at school. A whole giant list of shit that can happen, and George doesn’t know if he can handle it. 

Last night felt so good, so _right_ , laying there just the three of them. George already loves Lawrence so fucking much, knows Alex does too. 

But the kid’s parents are dead and they’re about to move him all the way across the country. 

Nothing about this is okay. 

\---

Lawrence’s voice is muffled through the door but his words still slice into George like a knife:

“I’m not going with you. I don’t _want_ to go with you. You aren’t my fucking parents. I don’t need you.” 

George crosses his arms over his chest, curling in on himself, trying not to let his voice betray how badly it hurts to hear Lawrence say that. Especially after last night, where it felt like they were a real family. Like they could be happy. 

Mood swings. Resentment. 

Check those off the list. 

Alex sighs and rocks back on his heels. 

“Do you want me…” 

“No. I’d like to talk to him, if that’s okay.” 

Alex nods quickly. 

“Of course.” 

George tries the door. Locked, like he expected. 

He heaves a sigh, closes his eyes and just _breathes_. Centers himself. 

“Hey Lawrence, can I come in for a second? I just want to talk. I promise I won’t make you leave.” 

“Why should I believe you?” Lawrence spits. George sighs and wiggles the handle again. 

“Because I love you and I’m never going to do anything to hurt you or betray your trust.” A beat of tense silence. “I promise.” 

The door opens with a creak, revealing a sliver of Lawrence’s dubious face. His eyes are red and puffy. George resists the urge to throw the door open and sweep him up into a hug. 

“You can come in,” he mutters, stepping aside and letting George slip through the door. George closes it behind him and leans against the wall. They stare at each other, and George feels the odd sensation of staring into his own eyes. Lawrence’s eyes aren’t so different from George’s. 

“I won’t make you leave if you don’t want to,” he finally says. “We can find you a foster family in the area and you can stay with them until you age out of the system. I’ll provide anything you need while you’re still young. Then, when you turn 18 you’ll have access to the college fund your parents set up for you, and when you turn 21 you’ll get all the money they left for you.” George shrugs. “I’ll always be there for you, and Alex and I will help find you a good home to stay in, but you never have to talk to us again if you don’t want to.” 

Lawrence narrows his eyes, worries his bottom lip with his teeth. 

Dubious is perhaps the best word to describe the look he gives George. Eyes pinched with a certain squint to them that George instantly recognizes—Betty gave him that look too many times to count when they were kids. 

George takes a deep breath and swallows past the lump in his throat. “Is that what you want?” 

“Who would my foster family be?” 

“I don’t know yet. We’d find you a social worker and get everything sorted. I’d make sure they were a good family. Nice people who would take care of you.” 

“And I could stay here in Sacramento?” 

“Sure.” George glances at Lawrence’s suitcases. Most of his stuff is in boxes that were sent ahead to the White House, but he had to pack up his clothes and a few other things last night. George spots a small bear dressed in a 49ers jersey laying on the bed. His throat tightens. 

“Would I get to meet them before I live with them?”

“Of course,” George says, his voice coming out tighter than before. Lawrence must notice, because his eyes widen and he glances away guiltily. George swallows and shifts his weight. “We’d make sure they’re good people who would take good care of you. Of course, they wouldn’t love you like Alex and I do.” His voice cracks and he chuckles nervously, tries to get himself back under control. “We both love you so much Lawrence, and I know that I’m not the best guy in the world, but I promise that I’ll always try my best. You’re such a bright boy, Lawrence, and there are so many things we could teach you. So many fun things we can do together. And I know that it’s scary, but Alex and I are going to do everything we can to make sure that you feel safe and loved and taken care of. We’ll find you somewhere to play football, let you decorate your room so it reminds you of home. Just—can you let us at least try?” 

George reaches up and rubs the tears out of his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I promise I don’t always cry this much.” 

Lawrence just shakes his head and sniffs, his own eyes glassy with tears. “I’ll go with you,” he says quietly. “But you’re not my father.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t know if I love you yet.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.” 

Lawrence nods and bites his lip before walking forward and hugging George around the waist. 

“Is there really a bowling alley at the White House?” he asks quietly. George chuckles and scratches Lawrence’s head affectionately. 

“Yeah, there is. It’s pretty awesome.” 

“Are you any good?” 

“I’m completely awful.” 

“Okay good. So am I.”

\---

Lawrence doesn’t talk in the car on the way to the airport. He sits leaned up against the window with his eyes closed, the small bear George noticed earlier clutched in his arms. 

He still doesn’t say anything when they board Air Force One. Just curls up on one of the couches and closes his eyes. Alex tugs George into the bedroom and they lay on the couch together, George holding Alex against his chest. At some point he must nod off, because he wakes up to Alex kissing his jaw and stroking his cheek. 

The ride from Andrew’s to the White House is short, and George tries not to let his anxiety show, but his heart is thudding hard in his chest and he’s starting to feel a little spacey. Alex holds his hand and rubs his knuckles soothingly, but George is finding it hard to focus on anything other than the ragged inhale-and-exhale of his breathing and the nausea churning in his stomach. 

Harriet is waiting for them in the Residence and she immediately smiles and introduces herself to Lawrence, offering to show him to his room. He glances back at George and Alex, eyebrows furrowed, and they both nod. He lets Harriet usher him down the hallway to his hopefully-decorated room. The White House staff is pretty good about these things, so George isn't exactly worried. 

He knows that he needs to get down to the Oval, but what he really wants is to take an afternoon nap with Alex, maybe take a nice warm bath together. 

Instead, they both get freshened up and change into fresh suits. When George looks in the mirror he’s struck by how tired he looks. 

Before going down, they go by Lawrence’s room and quietly tell him that they’ll be downstairs working, reminds him that he can come down anytime he wants. He’s sitting on the floor with a lego set, seemingly happy, and nods. George promises to take him to the bowling alley later; Alex tells him that they’ll have to go down to the kitchen and get some ice-cream tonight. Lawrence just nods, though George thinks he detects the hint of a smile. 

The rest of the day is filled with a whirlwind of meetings and briefings. He sits through it all, constantly reminding himself that this is important shit that he needs to pay attention to. India and Pakistan are at each other’s throats. Tornados are ripping through Ohio. The governor of New Mexico is pissed about George’s stance on immigration. Just a regular day at the office. 

He’s in the middle of a meeting with the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Rufus King, when Betsy sticks her head in the door. She smiles apologetically. 

“Sorry, Sir, but Lawrence is asking for you.” 

George can’t keep the smile of his face. 

“Okay, he can come in.” He turns and smiles at King. “Sorry, it’s his first day here.” King shakes his head and smiles. 

“Not a problem, Sir. I completely understand.” 

Lawrence walks in then, mouth immediately dropping open as he looks around. George chuckles and motions him over. 

“Pretty cool, huh?” 

“Yeah…” Lawrence eyes the desk and immediately perks up. “Can I sit behind your desk?” 

“Sure. Hold on, lemme help you.” George gets up from his spot on the couch and walks over to the desk, pulling the chair out for Lawrence. “Alright, hop on up there.” 

Lawrence climbs into the chair and grins when George pushes it in for him. He reverently strokes the surface of the desk. 

“Wow. This is really cool.” He squints at the portrait of Lincoln that George has hanging over the mantel. 

“I like your picture of Lincoln. He’s my favorite president.” George pretends to gasp in surprise and steps back. 

“You mean _I’m_ not your favorite president?” Lawrence’s eyes widen and he flushes. 

“Okay, well, Lincoln is my favorite _dead_ president,” he says quickly. George laughs and ruffles his hair. 

“Yeah, yeah. Nice try.” George smiles and motions to King. “Oh, and Lawrence, this is—”

“I know who he is,” he says matter-of-factly. “Nice to meet you Senator King.” 

King laughs and nods, slightly taken aback. “You’ve got quite a smart kid there, Mr. President. Nice to meet you too, Lawrence.” 

George squeezes Lawrence’s shoulder and pulls the chair back. “Alright buddy, the Senator and I need to finish up our meeting. How about you get someone to show you to Alex’s office. I bet he’d love to see you.” Lawrence nods and slides out of the chair. 

“Okay.” He pauses, eyes darting back and forth a little nervously, before hugging George. “Bye George.” 

George watches him go, waving one last time before he slips out of the room, and _fuck_ it’s so selfish, and he knows it’s way too early, but George wishes he would’ve said ‘Dad.’ 

Maybe one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is still enjoying this! I'm trying to capture Lawrence's mood swings and angst and idk if I'm doing that great of a job?? But I suck so it's expected. 
> 
> The next few chapters will have more intense angsty stuff b/c I thrive off hurting the things I love. 
> 
> Who knows when George will get his shit together. 
> 
> Berate me in the comments. I deserve it.


	6. Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter so sorry about that.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I think this Maret School is perfect,” Alex says around a bite of toast, crumbs flying. “I mean, it’s a great school academically and their football team is badass. They had an undefeated, 12-0 season last year and won the fucking championship. Pretty sweet, if you ask me.”

“What’s the tuition like?” George takes a sip of his coffee and rolls his eyes at the look Alex shoots him. “I know money’s not exactly a problem, but I’d still like to know.” 

“Don’t start getting all cheap on me in your old age, baby,” Alex teases as he clicks around on his iPad. He spins it around and lets George look at it. 

_$35,540 for grades 5-8. Does not include textbooks._

George sighs loudly through his nose and hands Alex his iPad back. 

“That’s a lot of money for an eight grade education,” George mutters as he takes a bite of his waffle. 

“Yeah, well, it’s cheaper than that fucking Quaker school with it’s shitty football team.” Alex shrugs and chugs a glass of orange juice. “They _really_ suck, by the way. They won two games last year. Yikes.” George arches an eyebrow. 

“They’re Quakers. Aren’t they against violence? It kind of makes sense that they’d suck at football.” 

“Fuck you’re right.” Alex laughs and drops his napkin down on his plate. “Well I’m gonna head on down to the office. You ready?” 

George nods and quickly takes a last bite of his waffle before pushing his chair back. 

“Yeah. I’ve got a meeting with Randolph in like fifteen minutes.” George pulls Alex into a hug and kisses him sweetly, a quick, chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I love you.” 

“I love you too. And you taste like maple syrup.” Alex licks his lips and grins.

George tracks the movement, staring down at Alex’s lips and shivering as he’s hit with a bolt of lust out of nowhere. He blinks in an attempt to get rid of the hazy feeling, wishing he could clear his nostrils of the smell of Alex’s cologne. It’s a new scent he’s trying out—Acqua Di Giò Eau De Toilette by Armani—and it’s fucking intoxicating. A fresh, almost floral scent that makes George want to bury his face in Alex’s neck and never come up for air again. 

Suddenly he’s cupping Alex’s face and crashing into him, their teeth knocking together as George backs him up against the wall. The air feels about a thousand degrees all around them and George whines into Alex’s mouth as he tries to rub himself off against Alex’s leg. Alex makes a little surprised noise when his back hits the wall, and George growls in frustration when Alex pushes on his chest and cranes his neck away. “Whoah, George,” he says. “We don’t really, ah, have time for this right now.” 

George grins against Alex’s neck as he starts to noisily suck a bruise into his smooth, olive skin. Alex’s erection is pressed up against his hip and he rocks into it, sighing softly at the drag of it down his leg. His cock twitches in his slacks and he feels dizzy with the way he’s pressed against Alex’s body. He ruts against him again, relishing the delicious pressure and hating it at the same time because it’s not enough, never enough. 

“Alex,” George whispers, punctuating his words with a gentle nip at Alex’s lips. “Please. I need you.” Alex lets out a breathy little sigh and reaches down to cup George through his pants, and George bucks forward without even realizing it, toes curling hard in his shoes. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists as need burns white hot in his belly. Alex starts to rub George’s crotch, pressing just hard to enough to garner some friction, but not nearly enough to satisfy the burning want singing through George’s veins. “Alexander. Please. _Please_ touch me.”

Yeah, he’s not above begging. Knows Alex fucking loves it when he begs, when he’s _good_. 

George shivers because _fuck_ he hates it—hates how he can go from being the president of the United States to a cock sucking good boy trembling in Alex’s arms. 

But they haven’t done anything since George angrily shouted at Alex and stomped out of the room in Sacramento, and yeah he’s embarrassed, especially when he lets out another involuntary little whimper as Alex reaches around him to massage his ass, but he can’t fucking help it because he _needs this._

“Please Alex, please,” he says, his voice high and reedy. Whiny. “Please touch me. I’ll be so good for you. _Please.”_ Alex squeezes George’s ass again, gives it a smack that jolts George forward, and bites George’s earlobe, tugging on it just hard enough to sting. He releases it with a little pop and runs his hands up and down George’s chest, ghosting over his pecks.

“We can’t, not here. Not in the fucking dining room. Someone could walk in.” 

“So?” George rolls his hips forward and Alex groans low in his throat. 

“No. George. Lets just go to the bedroom. It’s right down the hall. Come on.” Alex grabs George’s hand and tugs him out the door. They pointedly ignore the Secret Service agents standing around and George flushes because they probably all know what he and Alex are doing. He knows he must look like a mess: Lips red and swollen, tie and suit jacket askew, eyes glassy, cock straining against his pants. 

As soon as the bedroom door is shut behind them, Alex is shoving George up against the wall and grinning. George gasps as his head knocks back against the wall. 

“Two can play at that game baby,” Alex purrs, and _fuck_ George feels like he’s on fire. He braces himself against the wall and shudders when Alex squeezes his cock. 

“Oh Alex. Please.” He sounds pathetic and needy, and he forces himself to ignore the shame that bubbles up in his chest. The sharp stab of resentment. 

_It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine._

He chants it in his head, closing his eyes and centering himself. Refocusing on the moment. He’s here and it’s fine. Alex is going to take care of him. Alex isn’t judging him. It’s just them right now. No one ever has to know—

He feels his cock soften a little and Alex shakes his head.

“No George, baby. Stay here with me. You’re okay.” Alex starts undoing George’s belt, the metal clinking loudly, and George’s knees go weak. He laughs a little breathlessly as he regains his footing. 

_Focus. Breathe._

Alex hastily shoves George’s pants down and starts tugging his boxers down, pulling his cock out but leaving his ass mostly covered. George shivers as the cold air hits the tip of his hot cock. 

“I love you,” George whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as Alex kneels down and noses down the length of George’s cock, momentarily pulling away to push his hair out of his face. He grumbles under his breath and irritatedly pulls a hair off his lip. 

“Hold on,” he mutters as he pulls a hairband off his wrist and hastily ties his hair up. George chuckles and pats the top of Alex’s head. 

After he finishes putting his hair up, Alex squeezes down on George’s thighs and looks up at him with dark, glittering eyes. “Okay. Sorry about that.” 

George doesn’t get a chance to reply because then Alex is swallowing him down, lips stretching wide over his cock, and George groans, his whole body tensing up as his cock hits the back of Alex’s throat. 

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Alexander—” He chokes off into a moan when Alex rolls George’s balls in his fingers, cradling them and squeezing. He has to brace himself against the wall as his knees buckle and his hips spasm forward. Alex doesn’t even blink, just pulls off to focus his attention on the tip, laving at it and tonguing it over into his cheek. He pumps George’s cock and smiles up at him, chin slick and shiny with saliva.

“That feel good baby?” he whispers. George shudders and grabs Alex’s shoulders, squeezing down hard.

“Don’t stop,” he begs. “I’m so close Alex.” 

“It’s that good, huh?” Alex flicks George’s slit with his tongue and George keens, head knocking back against the wall. Alex keeps stroking his cock, twisting his wrist on the way up, and George feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

“Feels so good. Please don’t stop Alex. Oh my God.” 

Alex looks up at him, eyes wide and dark with lust, and sinks back down on George’s cock, bobbing his head several times before coming up for air. He gives George’s cock a few rough pumps and groans. “You’re such a good boy, George,” he mumbles, half-coherently. “Such a good, sweet boy for me.” 

George squeezes his eyes shut and presses his cheek against the wall as he feels his balls tightening. He tries to warn Alex but all that comes out is a strangled groan as he shoots off, cum spurting and hitting the bridge of Alex’s nose. Alex smirks up at him and jacks him slowly, gently tucking him back in once he’s finished. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and God fucking dammit George hates the way his head gets muddier with the praise. He slumps back against the wall and tries to catch his breath. 

Alex stands up and kisses him, and George tastes himself on his tongue. 

He fumbles around, fingers clumsy, to pull Alex’s cock out of his pants. 

All it takes is a few rough pumps and Alex is coming all over George’s hand. 

They get cleaned up and make it down to the office at eight sharp. Not bad. 

\---

On their way up to the Residence for lunch with Lawrence later that day, Alex grabs George’s hand and pulls him into the private sitting room, shutting the door behind them. George frowns and squeezes Alex’s hand. 

“It everything okay?” he asks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Alex glances away, goes and sits down on the couch, and nervously bounces his leg. 

“I’m sorry about this morning.” George blinks, confused. 

“What?” Alex bites his lip and wrings his hands in his lap.

“I got carried away. I know you don’t like… I didn’t mean to call you good boy. It just sort of slipped out. I’m really sorry.” George sighs and sits on the couch next to Alex, close but not quite touching. 

“It’s okay. I, uh, I mean I like it. And I sort of like it when you hit me.” George glances away, his face burning. “You could do that again if you wanted,” he finally says, his eyes still trained on the wall. “Just not my face.” 

“Okay,” Alex says, his voice noticeably huskier. “I mean, if that’s what you want—”

“It is.” George stands up and straightens his tie. “Lets go eat lunch. I don’t want to keep Lawrence waiting.” 

“Right.” Alex swallows and hurries into the hallway, and George follows him slowly, trying to push it all out of his mind. Now’s not the time to dwell on how much his parents fucked him up. 

Lawrence is waiting for them when they get to the dining room. He’s got his nose buried in a hardback book but he looks up when he sees them. He doesn’t look well—dark bags under glassy eyes, skin an odd grayish tint. George frowns and sits next to Lawrence. 

“Hey buddy, you feeling okay?” Lawrence sets his book down, leaving his thumb between the pages to keep his place, and shrugs. 

“Just kind of tired.” George bites his lip and nods. 

“Are you not sleeping well?” He tries to keep his tone light, but Lawrence still narrows his eyes. 

“I’m sleeping fine,” he says brusquely before picking his book back up. 

So today is a bad day.

Lawrence has been here for a week and a half, and they’ve fallen into a tenuous routine of ups and downs. Some days Lawrence is kind and even a little affectionate, allowing George to ruffle his hair and hug him, tolerating George and Alex telling him ‘I love you.’ Other days he’s surly and irritable, locking himself away in his room and snapping at them. Sometimes it’s a mix of both and he’ll go from curling up on the couch with them to bursting into tears and screaming at them. 

It’s exhausting. 

George and Alex share a look across the table and George clears his throat. 

“Okay, well, if you’re ever having trouble sleeping you can come and get me and Alex up. We’ll sit with you or go out and do something until you can go back to sleep.” 

“I’m fine,” Lawrence snaps, snapping his book closed and setting it on the table. George tries to catch a glimpse of the title but can’t see around Lawrence’s body. George heaves a sigh and nods in thanks when someone comes in with their food. Lawrence stares disdainfully down at the plate of pasta in front of him and pushes it away. “I’m not hungry.” 

“That’s okay, but you’ll probably feel better if you eat a little something,” Alex says gently. Lawrence narrows his eyes and juts his lip out in defiance. 

“Are you gonna make me eat it?” he taunts. Alex’s brow creases and he awkwardly shifts his weight, shooting George a worried look. George reaches over to squeeze Lawrence’s arm but he bats his hand away. “Don’t touch me. You’re always trying to touch me, hugging me and shit. It’s so annoying. Why can’t you just leave me alone?” 

“I’m sorry,” George says, suddenly not very hungry himself. He pushes his pasta around his plate, staring at it, resisting the urge to look at Lawrence. 

After a few more minutes of tense silence Alex clears his throat. 

“We, uh, found a really nice looking school that I think you’re going to like. Their football team went 12-0 last season.” 

“I bet they’re not as good as my team in Sacramento.” Lawrence pushes his chair back and grabs his book. “I’m going to my room.” Lawrence stalks out of the room, and George watches as the door swings shut behind him. 

“That went well,” Alex mutters. George snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“He fucking hates us.”

“He’s just upset. He’ll feel better later. Trust me.” Alex gives him a crooked little smile, and George tries to return it but everything feels so fucking impossible right now and all he wants to do is crawl into bed and never get out. 

“I’m going to head back down to the office. I’ll see you later.” George gets up and walks around the table to kiss Alex’s head. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Alex bites his lip and grabs George’s hand, holding him in place. “Hey, are you okay George?” 

_I’m fine._

He swallows and squeezes Alex’s hand. 

“I’m not having the best day.” 

“I’m sorry baby.” George’s eyes flutter closed as Alex stands up and pulls him into a hug. “It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has like almost no plot. It's fine. 
> 
> I should be doing school work lmao.
> 
> Comments are cool!


	7. Chris is Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for police brutality 
> 
> This chapter has a lot going on y'all
> 
> Christopher Seider was the 11 year old boy killed in the Boston Massacre. I made him 12 b/c I can lmao.  
> Enjoy friends!

“Mr. President it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mary Talbott, the head of school at Maret, shakes George’s hand and gives him a bright, sunny smile. 

“It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am.” He nods and motions to Alex beside him. “I believe you and my husband spoke on the phone.” She smiles again and shakes Alex’s hand, nodding. 

“Of course. Mr. Hamilton, nice to finally meet you in person.” Then, turning to Lawrence, she beams with the biggest smile yet. “And this must be Lawrence. It’s very nice to meet you young man. Your dad told me that you’re quite the football player.” Lawrence stares at the ground and agitatedly shifts his weight.

“He’s not my dad,” he mutters. Mrs. Talbott’s eyes widen and George shoots her an apologetic look. 

“How about we get started filling out Lawrence’s paper work,” he says smoothly, and Mrs. Talbott nods quickly. 

“Of course.” She holds her office door open for them and they file in. Lawrence slouches down in one of the chairs against the wall and crosses his arms. 

“Uh, hey buddy,” George says gently. “How about you sit outside and read your book? This is going to be pretty boring anyway. After we’re finished we’ll go take a look around, okay?” 

“Fine,” Lawrence says curtly before sliding out of the chair and shuffling outside. George sighs and sits down in one of the plush leather chairs in front of Mrs. Talbott’s desk. 

“Sorry about that,” George says tiredly. “He’s not always like this. It’s just… hard.” George shifts his weight and crosses his legs. “Anyway, we mostly wanted to come in and ask you just a few questions.” 

“Ask anything you want,” Mrs. Talbott says pleasantly. George nods and forces himself not to fidget. 

“We just want to make sure that no one’s going to pick on him because I’m his… guardian.” 

“Or because we’re gay,” Alex adds. “I know it’s a progressive school, but kids with two daddies are still major targets for bullying.” Mrs. Talbott nods and folds her hands in front of her. 

“To address your question first, Mr. President, a lot of the students here have parents in government. We have several ambassador’s children that attend Maret, as well as agency heads.” She reaches up to push an errant strand of hair off her forehead. “And to address your question, Mr. Hamilton, I can assure you that we foster a safe and accepting environment here at Maret. There’s a zero tolerance bullying policy here and strict disciplinary measures are taken with any student who we find is bullying another student…” Mrs. Talbott keeps talking but George doesn’t really hear what she says, just watches her mouth move out of the corner of his eye. 

He feels bad for tuning out the conversation, but sitting here in this nice comfortable chair is making him sleepy as hell. Mrs. Talbott has a candle sitting on the edge of her desk and George inhales deeply. It’s somethings calming, eucalyptus maybe, and it’s taking some of the edge off the headache he’s had all day. One of those tension headaches that feels like someone’s squeezing your fucking head with a clamp. He absently reaches up and rubs his temples before he lets his hand fall back into his lap. Mrs. Talbott has her degrees hanging on the wall behind her desk and George’s studies them—undergrad in secondary education from Duke, graduate degree in child psychology from American University. Impressive. 

George blinks hard and tries to focus back in on the conversation. Beside him, Alex is gesturing with his hands as he talks. 

“—Includes online bullying, right?” Alex is in the middle of asking, “because I’ve seen lots of statistics on online bullying and it’s much harder to detect and way easier to get away with.” Alex sits back in his seat, and George startles when he reaches over to hold his hand. Shoots him a concerned look that George chooses to ignore, gives his hand a little squeeze instead. Mrs. Talbott smiles reassuringly.

“We also monitor online bullying, yes. Don’t worry, Mr. Hamilton. Lawrence will be in excellent hands here.” Alex nods and smooths down his tie. 

“Okay. Good.” He glances over at George. “George, do you have anything else to ask love?” 

“I think I’m good.” He blinks and tears his eyes away from the Maret pennant hanging on the wall. Their mascot, the fighting frog, is a little weird looking. Mrs. Talbott leans over to rifle around in a filing cabinet and sits back up with a stack of papers. 

“Alright, well, whenever you’re ready we can get to signing these papers and get Lawrence enrolled.” 

“Sounds great.” George and Alex both lean forward and start scrawling their names across the different papers, trading them back-and-forth. 

After they finally finish signing, they go outside and get Lawrence so they can go on a tour. Lawrence begrudgingly stands up, shrugging off the hand George puts on his shoulder. George tries to hide the hurt look that flickers across his face but knows that Mrs. Talbott sees it. 

The school is nice and George really does try to pay attention to what Mrs. Talbott is saying but his headache is starting to get worse again so he grabs Alex’s hand and lets Mrs. Talbott and Lawrence walk a little ways ahead. Neither of them seem to notice as she keeps chattering away with Lawrence staring at the ground beside her. Alex squeezes George’s hand and frowns. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks softly. 

They’re stopped in the middle of the hallway so George turns and pretends to study a piece of student art on the wall. 

“I’ve got a really bad headache and I’m worried it might end up being a migraine. Do you have any of my medicine with you?” 

“I’ve got some Excedrin Migraine.” Alex digs his wallet out of his pocket and pulls a small plastic bag out of the money fold. “I always keep a few with me just in case.” He hands George a couple of the white pills and motions to the water fountain mounted on the wall. “Get some water and take that. Hopefully you’ll feel better. Do you want to get some coffee or something? I know caffeine helps sometimes.” 

George bends down and eagerly gulps down several mouthfuls of water and takes his pill. Alex rubs little circles into the small of his back.

“Yeah maybe,” he says after standing up and wiping his mouth off. I don’t know; it’s fine. I just don’t wanna get all weird and spacey in front of Lawrence.” 

“I know love.” Alex raises onto his toes to press a small kiss to the corner of George’s mouth before tugging him along. Mrs. Talbott is showing Lawrence some kind of fancy vending machine full of healthy foods and the bored look on his face almost makes George laugh out loud. 

“There are all kinds of tasty snacks in here,” Mrs. Talbott says as she motions to plastic packages of carrot sticks and protein bars. Lawrence wrinkles his nose but nods politely. 

“That’s cool.” Mrs. Talbott grins and reverently pats the side of the vending machine.

“Here at Maret we’re very involved in making sure all our students maintain a well balanced, healthy diet.” 

“That’s awesome,” Lawrence says duly, but Mrs. Talbott seems oblivious to his disinterest. After she starts walking again, Lawrence turns to them and pulls a face. “You’re going to pack my lunch right? Because I can’t live off carrots and yogurt cups.” Alex laughs and squeezes Lawrence’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry champ, I’ll make sure you’ve got the best damn lunch in school. You’re a growing boy, you need some real food.” Lawrence smiles and George watches as some of the ice leaves his eyes. 

On their way out to the motorcade he lets George pull him into a hug. 

\---

As soon as they get back to the White House and down to the Oval, Angelica and Lafayette are barging in with tense, worried looks on their faces. 

George’s headache gets a little worse.

“What is it?” he sighs. “Is the world finally fucking ending?” 

“Kind of,” Lafayette says wryly. Off George’s confused look he sighs. “There’s a riot growing in Boston. An unarmed black kid got shot by some white cops and the whole city’s exploding.” 

Fuck. 

George sits down heavily on the couch and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Can’t he ever catch a God damn break? 

“How old was he?” 

“12,” Angelica says quietly. George inhales sharply. 

“Christ. What’s their excuse for shooting him?” 

“Said he was causing trouble outside a gas station,” Lafayette says as he glances at a stack of papers in his hands. “There were some friends with him and they said he wasn’t doing anything. They said the cop seemed drunk. The Boston PD hasn’t really said anything yet, so we have no way of knowing if he was drunk or not, but they’ll have to release the information eventually. Right now we’re working on getting surveillance video from the gas station.” 

George feels sick to his fucking stomach. 12 years old. 

It could be Lawrence. His son. His son could be dead outside a grimy gas station, part of a crime scene, facedown in the gravel, swimming in a pool of his own blood—

“What was his name? The boy?” George looks up, meeting Lafayette’s eyes. Lafayette glances away, swallows. 

“Christopher,” he says softly. “He went by Chris.” 

“Can you get his parent’s number? I want to call them.” 

“They’re dead,” Angelica says. She looks out the window and clears her throat. “Mom died in childbirth. Dad shot and killed in a drive-by shooting a few months ago.” 

George’s headache gets a little worse. Nausea churns low in his gut. 

“Okay, well, do we have anyone I can call? Who the fuck was taking care of him?” George snaps. Alex sits beside him and squeezes his thigh. Comforting. Grounding. 

_Breathe._

“He was living with his aunt. Apparently they were very close.” 

“Then get me that number. I want everyone down in the Sit Room so we can monitor the riots. I’m going to need to put the Massachusetts National Guard on stand-by. Get me Governor Hutchinson on the phone please.” George stands up and brushes his suit down. “And Alex, love.” He turns and tucks a piece of Alex’s hair behind his ear. “Will you go upstairs and make sure Lawrence isn’t watching the news? I know he’s old enough but I just… I don’t want him—”

“Shh,” Alex shushes him. “I know. I’ll go check.” Alex kisses his cheek. “I’ll meet you in the Sit Room when I’m done.” George nods and watches as Alex strides out of the room. 

“It’s so fucking awful,” Lafayette says quietly and George chokes out a harsh laugh. 

“That could be our kids, Gil.” Lafayette blinks and reaches up to rub his eyes.

“I know.” He blinks again and stands up straight. “I’ll get you the aunt’s number right now and meet you in the Sit Room, Sir.” 

After Lafayette and Angelica leave, murmuring quietly to one another, George flops back down on the couch and rubs his temples. His headache is steadily pulsing now and his stomach is churning and God dammit why does everything have to be so awful sometimes? 

The kid was 12 years old and now he’s on national television lying in a pool of his own blood.

\---

Betsy quietly informs him that Chris’s aunt, Ms. Georgia Seider, is on the phone for him, and George’s heart speeds up. He picks the phone up with shaking hands. 

“Ms. Seider?” he says hesitantly. “This is President Washington.” 

“Hello Mr. President,” she says, her words slowed with a delicate Southern drawl. “Thank you for calling me.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“You’re welcome.” He swallows. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” His voice waivers at the end.

“Thank you, Sir. That’s very kind of you.” She pauses and sighs. “My little boy was a big fan of yours. His daddy took him to your second inauguration.” 

_Fuck._ George’s throat is starting to close up and he tries to breathe through it. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again because he doesn’t know what else to say. He rubs his eyes. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure the man who did this is brought to justice. I know it’s not really, well, I don’t always have as much power or authority as I’d like during these situations, but I’m going to try damn hard to put this guy behind bars. I’ll make fifty speeches if I have to. Your nephew didn’t deserve to die.” George sniffs and laughs nervously. “I’m sorry it’s just—I’ve got a son now and he’s also 12 so it’s… I can’t even imagine.” 

“That means a lot, Sir—”

“Just call me George.” 

He hears Ms. Seider chuckle. 

“Alright, then you call me Georgia.” She sniffs and exhales softly. “Thank you for standing up for my boy. I helped my brother raise him so I always considered him a son. He was such a bright boy. He wanted to work in the White House one day and let me tell you, he was so smart that he could have.” Georgia’s voice breaks and George feels like he’s drowning. This is the one part of the job he’ll never get used to. It’s so _hard._

“I’m sure he would have.” George takes a shaky breath. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Georgia,” George say solemnly. “I promise.” 

“I’m going to hold you to that, George.” 

They end the call a few seconds later. George cradles his head in his hands and takes a few minutes to breathe. 

\---

As soon as George gets into the Sit Room, everyone in the room stops what they’re doing and stumbles to their feet. George waves them down and stands behind his chair, curling his fingers over the back. Up on the TV, CNN is on and George winces when he sees the images coming out of Boston. Police decked out in riot gear; protestors in all black, faces covered by ski masks; buildings on fire. 

His headache is throbbing at this point and his vision is starting to get a little fuzzy. Excederin Migraine never fucking works for him; he should know better, needs to start carrying his medication around with him. At least he’s not curled up in pain yet.

“Do we have more information about Chris?” he asks. Lafayette nods and motions to the screen. 

“We’ve got the surveillance video if you want to watch it.” 

George takes a deep breath, shares a brief look with Alex, and nods. 

“Alright, lets watch it.” 

George winces when the bright, grainy video comes up on the screen. He blinks hard and tries to focus on the video. 

Four boys are standing outside the gas station, talking, horsing around. The shortest boy— _“Chris,”_ Lafayette quietly points out—jokingly thumps his friend’s chest, a big grin on his face, and raises his fists. They’re so obviously playing around, just joking with each other, except his friend is white and so is the cop who steps out of the car he had parked in the parking lot. The cop shouts something, Chris spins around and says something back. Defensive. _Scared._ They go back-and-forth; Chris’s friend tries to step in. Then the cop pulls his gun. 

George can’t hold back the gasp he lets out when the cop shoots. Three fucking bullets right into the gut. Chris’s friends dive out of the way. He drops to the ground like a bag of bricks. The cop swaggers up to him, stumbles a little, stares down at his body. Scrapes the blood off his shoe. 

“That’s enough,” George growls. “Turn it off.” 

Everyone sits there in silence. The pain in George’s head pulses in time with his heartbeat. Chris is dead. 

\---

They sit there watching the riots, trying to get someone from Boston PD on the phone. George ends up dispatching the Massachusets National Guard. Releases a statement condemning the violence. 

After a couple hours of furiously working, George’s head is hurting so badly that he can barely focus on what people are saying to him, and he’s so dizzy that he doesn’t think he can stand up. A swell of panic rises in his chest and he swallows down a surge of nausea. 

Alex is off to the side finally on the phone with someone from Boston PD, whispering angrily, and George tries to get his attention.    
George squeezes his fists and closes his eyes. Everyone seems to be talking at once and phones are ringing and George feels like his head is about to split open. 

Alex finally finishes his phone call and George motions him over. As soon as he does, Alex’s forehead wrinkles in concern and he hurries over. 

“George?” he whispers. “What’s wrong? You look awful.” 

“My head,” he says weakly. Alex frowns and he hesitantly reaches over to rub George’s shoulders. George shakes his head and shudders. Alex immediately pulls his hands away. 

“Are you having a migraine?” George grits his teeth and nods. 

“I’m sorry but I think I need to go upstairs, Alex.” George shudders and swallows. “I feel like I’m about to throw up.” Alex nods and immediately goes over to Lafayette, taps his shoulder and leans in to whisper in his ear. George closes his eyes again. 

Then Alex is walking back over to him and helping him stand. George almost falls over, clumsily checks the table with his hip and winces, letting out a low hiss of pain. Alex wraps his arms around George and helps him walk upstairs. Halfway there George has to stop and lean against the wall, taking slow, measured breaths. 

As soon as they get into their bedroom, George strips out of his suit and crawls into the bed, curling up and squeezing his eyes shut. Alex helps him take one of his pills and whispers that he’ll come back and check on him later. He nods sluggishly, too gone to completely process what’s happening. 

Finally everything is quiet and dark, and George tries to fall asleep, just wants the fucking pain to end. 

Except he can’t stop picturing the dead little boy lying face down in his own blood. 

As George finally starts to fall asleep, all he can think about is Chris. 

Chris is dead. George hates the entire world.

\---

“George?” 

George grunts and slowly opens his eyes, squinting in the dark. His head is still throbbing, but it’s not as bad this time. He sits up a little and frowns when he sees Lawrence standing there staring at the ground. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s wrong buddy?” Lawrence looks up and his eyes are wet with tears. He opens his mouth but all that comes out is a soft sob. George frowns and pushes himself into a sitting position, grunting softly and swallowing down the nausea. “Lawrence,” he whispers. “Come here, what’s wrong?” Lawrence walks forward and allows George to comb through his hair. 

“Alex told me not to bother you because you’re sick—” Lawrence hiccups and rubs his eyes. “But I had a dream about my parents and I know I’m too old, and I’m always so mean to you that you probably hate me—”

“Lawrence, no. I don’t hate you,” George says softly. “And you’re not too old to be upset over a bad dream.” George bites his lip and combs through Lawrence’s hair again. “Do you want to lay down with me for a little bit?” Lawrence looks away and wrings his shirt in his hands as he agitatedly shifts his weight from foot to foot. 

“Alex said that you were really sick so I needed to leave you alone. He said you have a bad headache so sounds hurt.” 

“Shh, I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Okay,” Lawrence whispers before walking around the bed and climbing in. He hesitantly lays down, keeping a comfortable amount of space between them, just close enough that George can feel his body heat. 

“I love you Lawrence. It’s always okay to come to us if you have a nightmare or don’t feel well. We’ll always be here for you.” 

“Okay.” Lawrence pauses and rolls over to face George. “I hope your head stops hurting.” George blinks sleepily and manages a small smile. 

“Thanks buddy.” 

A wave of nausea suddenly hits him and he shudders and presses his lips together. Once it passes, he lets out a slow breath.

“Are you okay?” Lawrence whispers. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about me.” George lets his eyes slide shut. “But I’m still not feeling very well so I think I’m gonna go back to sleep. You can stay here if you think it’ll help you sleep better.” George pulls the duvet up over his shoulder and yawns. “I love you Lawrence.” 

Lawrence curls up, wiggling close enough that George can scratch affectionately at his head. Lawrence sighs softly, finally relaxing. 

George is already half asleep when he says it:

“I love you too George.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout at me in the comments pls.


	8. Sigh No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW panic attack
> 
> There's kinda a lot in this chapter. Alex and George are such cute dads i'm Dead. 
> 
> For context, George was 15 in 1995 and Sally refers to Sally Cary (later Fairfax). If you don't remember the story with her, basically she and George dated and she didn't treat him that great. 
> 
> Enjoy!

1995

“Listen to me, George. They don't care who your daddy is or what clothes you’re wearing, if they see a black boy—a brother, _a thug_ —stumbling around drunk, they’re going to stop you and ask you what the fuck you’re doing.”

Lawrence angrily jerks George upstairs, his grip almost painfully strong, and George sluggishly stumbles after him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, but Lawrence just shakes his head and shoves George into his bathroom. 

_“Sit.”_ He points at the toilet lid. George nods and slumps onto the toilet. His head is pounding and his stomach is churning and he’s just _so fucking drunk—_

“It doesn’t matter that Dad is a senator,” Lawrence snaps as he fills a paper cup with water. “They don’t know that.” He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Fuck, if you say one wrong thing to them, they may shoot your black ass before they even ask for an ID. Do you understand me?” He hands George the water and two Advil. “You can’t go get drunk and walk home at three in the fucking morning. What were you thinking?” 

George swallows down the pills and bites his lip as it starts to wobble. God he’s such a fuck up. He can never do anything right. What would happen if he were to get caught in a police scandal? It would tank his dad’s career. He’s so fucking stupid. 

“Oh my God I’m sorry,” he says before a sob tears itself out of his throat. He doubles over and buries his face in his hands. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to have fun and today was such a bad day, you know? With dad? I thought I deserved to have some fun. Sally invited me and she never asks me out on real dates. Fuck, I’m so sorry Lawrence.” George sobs and tries to jerk away when Lawrence touches his knee. 

“Georgie, no, look at me,” Lawrence whispers. George shivers as Lawrence combs through his hair. “I’m not mad at you. C’mon, lemme see that handsome face.” George sniffs and reluctantly raises his head. Lawrence greets him with a gentle smile. “Listen, I’m not mad at you, okay? You do deserve to have some fun, you’re right. I just want you to be careful, yeah? You’re my only little brother and I love you. I’m just looking out for you, Georgie Porgie.” Lawrence pokes George’s side and he smiles, squirming away. 

“Okay. I’ll use someone’s house phone to call you next time so you can come get me.” Lawrence nods and pats George’s cheek. 

“Sounds good. I’d rather drag my ass out of bed at three in the morning than see you dead on the morning news.”

“I know.” George takes a deep breath and stares at his lap. “Can I lay with you tonight? Dad—” He swallows and takes a deep breath. “Dad won’t hurt me in the morning if I’m in your room.” Lawrence makes a pained sound in the back of his throat and ruffles George’s hair. 

“Of course, George. C’mon, drink some more of that water and lets get your drunk ass to bed.” Lawrence smirks and hauls George to his feet. “You better not puke in my bed.” 

“I’ll try my best.” 

—-

Present

George stares at the bowl of grits in front of him and his stomach turns. Alex says something to him and he tries to block it out, can’t stand the way sounds are bouncing around inside his head. It’s all so fucking _loud_. 

“I’m going to go on down to the office,” George says suddenly. Alex blinks, taken aback, and slowly lowers the hand he has clutching a forkful of eggs. 

“George, are you okay? You still look sick, honey. Are you sure you want to go in right now? Why don’t you take a half day and go in at noon—”

“I can’t. There’s too much to do with Chris. I mean, I’ve still got to call Governor Hutchinson—” 

“Who’s Chris?” 

George and Alex both look over at Lawrence and frown, sharing a quick look. 

George’s head throbs in time with his heartbeat and he seriously reconsiders the whole half day thing. 

He slowly sits back down and takes a deep breath. Under the table Alex squeezes his knee. 

“Chris is a boy who got shot by police last night,” George says gently. Lawrence frowns and pushes his eggs around his plate. 

“Um, okay,” he says slowly. “Was he a bad guy? Like a criminal?” 

“No, buddy, he wasn’t.” 

“Then why’d the police kill him?” 

George takes a deep breath, glances up at the ceiling, summons his strength. 

“Well, love, they killed him because he was black.”

“I don’t understand.” Lawrence shifts his weight and puts his fork down. “Why would they do that?” 

“The cop doesn’t like black people and he thought Chris was acting up.” 

“You mean the cop’s racist.” Lawrence looks him right in the eye. George bites his lip and nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “He’s racist and a white supremacist.” Something flashes in Lawrence eyes and he sits up straighter. 

“How old was Chris?” George takes a deep breath and holds Lawrence’s gaze. 

“He was 12. Just like you.” 

“That’s so fucked up,” Lawrence spits, and George knows he shouldn’t let him talk like that, but it _is_ fucked up, so all George can do is let out a startled little laugh and grab Lawrence’s hand across the table. 

“Yeah, buddy, it really is.” George squeezes Lawrence’s hand. “You know that, for some reason, if you ever get stopped by the police, you just need to be very polite and not cause any trouble. It won’t matter whose son you are, if they think you’re causing trouble then they won’t hesitate to at least shove you around a little. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I love you.” Lawrence swallows and squeezes George’s hand back.

“I know. I promise I won’t do anything to cause trouble.” He pauses and smiles shyly. “I love you too, George.” Then, turning to Alex, “and I love you, Alex. Thank you for letting me stay in your bed last night. I’ll try not to let that happen again.” 

“Hey, no,” Alex interjects. “You’re always welcome to stay with us if you need to. George and I both get bad dreams, so we know what it’s like. Sometimes you just need someone there next to you. You come to us whenever you need to, alright?” 

“Okay.” Lawrence swallows and pulls his hand away, letting it fall limply into his lap. “Also, um, do I have to start school today? I don’t really feel too well.” 

_Fuck._

George completely forgot Lawrence was starting school today. Even though they just fucking went and enrolled him. George the Father really isn’t doing so hot lately. Of course, Alex the Father also seems to be off his game because he says a quiet little ‘fuck’ under his breath and reaches under the table to squeeze George’s knee again. Lawrence is still looking at them expectantly and George nervously clears his throat, biding his time.

“Uh, what do you mean you don’t feel well?” he finally asks. “What feels bad?” Lawrence shrugs and bites his lip. 

“My stomach is kind of bothering me. And I’ve got a headache.” 

“Bothering you like you might throw up?” Alex asks a little eagerly. 

So George definitely isn’t the only one totally not emotionally ready to send Lawrence to school. Especially not in the wake of everything yesterday. George can’t stop imagining Lawrence lying there on the sidewalk, his face streaked with blood. George motions for Lawrence to come around the table. 

“Can I see if you have a fever?” 

“Um, yeah. Sure.” Lawrence slinks over guiltily and stands there while George feels his forehead and cheeks. He feels completely normal, but George might as well just jump off the fucking deep end. 

“You know, I think you feel a little hot,” he says, almost laughing at the incredulous look Lawrence quickly tries to cover up. 

“You’re also looking a little pale,” Alex jumps in to add. “Maybe you should go lie back down. I’ll call the school and let them know that you’re not feeling your best. No one wants to be the kid who barfs on his first day. Then you’d be Puke Kid for the rest of your academic career, and no one wants that.” Lawrence giggles and flushes. 

“Yeah, okay.” He quickly leans over and pulls them both into a hug, throwing his arms around their necks. “Uh, is it okay if I get in you guys’ bed? It’s a lot more comfortable than mine and Argos sleeps in it. He’s really warm.” Lawrence smiles shyly and George has to resist the urge to pull him into a hug and never let go. George blinks back a sudden wave of tears and nods. 

“Of course, buddy. Go change back into your PJs and get on back in the bed. Alex and I will be back up to check on you in a little while.” 

“Okay. Love you guys.” 

Lawrence scurries out of the room and George and Alex both collapse back in their chairs. 

“We totally just helped him play hookie, you know that right?” Alex asks. George snorts and rolls his head over to look at Alex. 

“Yeah, we’re the worst parents on earth. I just—I don’t want him away from us right now. Not after, well, you know.” 

“I know.” Alex leans over and gives him a quick kiss. “C’mon, we need to be downstairs. I’ll call Maret on our way down.” 

George follows Alex down to the Oval, thankful that their son is only a few flights of stairs away. Georgia Seider can’t say the same about her son. 

\---

“The toxicology reports are back. The cop, Ebenezer Richardson’s, BAC was .102,” Lafayette says as he paces back in forth in front of the fireplace. George lets out a low whistle and shifts his weight, recrossing his legs. 

“Jesus Christ. He was _that_ drunk on duty?” George shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. If this guy doesn’t end up in jail…” He trails off and shakes his head.

“I know,” Lafayette says quietly. “It’s disgusting.” 

“The entire city of Boston seems to think so too. Mayor Phillips issued a state of emergency,” Angelica says as she reads off her notepad. “They’re still going on even now. Northeastern cancelled classes and the public schools are all closed. It’s not looking good.” 

“There are also protests popping up in other major cities,” Alex says. “AP reported this morning that there are protests happening in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Washington, Tuscon, Atlanta…The list goes on and on. We’ve got a serious problem on our hands.” 

“Alright. I need to make a statement as soon as possible. Herc, Toby, how soon can you guys get me something? I know we released some press shit last night, which was good, but I need to address the nation. Now. I want something on my desk in 30 minutes. Can you guys do that?” 

“Of course, Sir,” Toby and Herc say almost simultaneously. They both scramble to their feet and nod before hurrying out the door, already rapidly whispering under their breath. George lets out a slow breath and rubs his face. 

“Alright. Umm, lets see, do we have any updates on Richardson’s condition? Is he in jail? On bond? What’s going on?” 

“He’s currently being held in custody. Boston PD already issued a statement that he’s been released of his duties, and then gave some bullshit, canned statement on how they’ll be further investigating and looking into his actions. Just a bunch of PR shit,” Lafayette spits. “This is all a bunch of fucking bullshit.” 

George takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. He can’t get his hands to stop shaking, feels like he’s about to lose his shit. He hasn’t had a panic attack in months, not a full blown one, and he’s not about to have one now. He has to take control of the situation. He can do this. 

“Fuck. Alright, can someone get in touch with the mayor’s office? I want us monitoring the situation in Boston. And I’d like details on when Chris’ funeral is. I want to go.”

“Of course, Sir,” Lafayette says. “We’ll get right on it.” 

“I’ll call Chris’ aunt and find out about the funeral,” Angelica adds. “In 15 minutes you have a photo op with members of the joint Palestinian-Israeli negotiation delegation. They’re here to meet with members of State but we thought it’d be a nice image booster for them, and us, if they got in a few words with you and the press got some shots. It should only last about 10 to 15 minutes. The press will probably try to ask you some questions about Boston, so just ignore them.” 

George’s headache throbs. He takes a deep breath and drains the rest of his second cup of coffee. 

“Okay, sounds good.” He glances back down at his schedule and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do I really have to go to the Air and Space Museum to help unveil a new exhibit? Seriously?” Angelica and Lafayette share a glance. 

“Sorry, Sir, but it’s been in the books for months. It would look bad if we bail on them now. Plus, it’s a bunch of public school kids who are being bused up for the event. They’ve been looking forward to it.” 

Of course it’s with children. It’s _always_ the children. 

“Alright, fine. Sounds great,” he says tiredly. “I’ll see you guys later. Don’t forget to pencil in time for my speech.” 

“We won’t,” Lafayette assures him before ducking out of the room with Angelica beside him. Alex sighs and comes over to rub George’s shoulders. 

“Just take a deep breath, honey,” he says in George’s ear, his breath hot on George’s skin. “It’s all going to be okay. We’re always okay.” George sighs and lets his eyes slip closed. 

“I know. I’m just feeling… panicky. And it’s kind of freaking me out. I haven’t felt like this in a while.” 

“Do you need a Xanax?” George bristles and shakes his head. 

“No. Absolutely not. I can’t be all fuzzy today.” Alex makes a small noise in protest, but George shakes his head again. “No, Alex.” Alex sighs and kisses the top of George’s head. 

“Okay, okay. Then how about you lie down for a few minutes. You’ve got 10 minutes before they start setting up for the photo op. Just lie down and close your eyes.” 

“Fine, but only because you’re so damn cute and convincing.” Alex laughs and sits down on the couch. 

“Come put your head in my lap, baby.” George rolls his eyes even as he lies down and gets comfortable. Alex strokes his cheek and his eyes flutter closed. 

“Did you talk to Lawrence’s school?” 

“Yeah. They just said that they hope he feels better and to send him in when he’s feeling better.” Alex snickers. “We’re the worst parents ever.” 

“Oh whatever.” George smiles. “I just want him to be happy, you know? And things seem to be going well right now. I don’t wanna fuck that up.” 

“I know.” 

“So you don’t think I’m weak for letting him get out of going to school?”

“Not at all. You’re scared. It’s okay. I am too.” 

“I can’t believe we have a child Alex. I mean it feels like… Sometimes it feels like we’re right back at the beginning, you know? Like I’m 33 and you’re 23 and we’re just sitting around flirting in my office.” George laughs and grabs Alex’s hand. “Do you ever miss that?” 

“Sometimes,” Alex murmurs. “But I think I prefer right now.”

\---

The day passes by in an uncomfortable blur. 

George has the photo op with the negotiation delegation, goes and talks to the kids at the museum, which should’ve cheered him up, but he just felt unsettled the whole time. 

He gives his address to the nation, almost breaks down in tears when he starts talking about Chris, because when the fuck did people start thinking it was okay to use little black boys as target practice? When did that become a left vs right issue when it’s really just about being right and wrong? It’s like he woke up one day and America became a country he doesn’t even recognize. How many more black and brown kids have to die before this country wakes the fuck up? 

He has to go into his private office and take a few deep breaths after he finishes, tries to quell the panic rising in his chest. Except then his hands start shaking and he can’t fucking breathe and everything’s fuzzy. There’s this high pitched ringing in his ears and the room is spinning and _fuck_ he feels like he’s going to pass out. 

Somehow he ends up sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall, as he buries his face into his arms and hyperventilates. He’s always hated this—the feeling that he’s underwater, submerged 50 feet below sea level, imprisoned in his own little glass hell where he can’t hear or see anything. Everything just spins out of control around him and all he can do is sit on his ass and cry. 

George chokes on a sob and tries to suck in a breath, anything to alleviate the burning in his chest, but he just ends up coughing and blowing snot all over his face like a child. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he tries to pull it out because he needs Alex. All he wants is Alex, knows Alex will fix it. 

His phone screen lights up with a text from Alex. 

_You okay? Toby said you stormed into your private office. Worried abt you xx_

George barks out a strangled laugh and whimpers. 

_Think I'm having a panic attack_

Alex comes barging in the door about two minute later, orange bottle of Xanax rattling in his hand. He kneels right down next to George and gently grabs his wrist. 

“George? Baby? It’s me, Alex. You with me?” 

“I think so.” George shudders. “I think I’m going to pass out Alex.” He screws his eyes shut and sobs. “I’m so sorry.” 

Alex gently taps George’s cheek and shushes him.

“Hey, no, you’re okay. You’re not going to pass out. Just focus on me. What day of the week is it?” 

“Thursday.” He can’t breathe. Doesn’t Alex understand that he _can’t breathe?_

“What’s your best friend’s full name?” 

“Gilbert Motier Lafayette.” George moans and tries to pull away. “God I can’t—Please Alex.” 

“Shh. I know honey. It’s okay. Stay with me, George. Open your eyes and look at me. Give me your eyes, George.” George blinks and sluggishly looks at Alex. He’s rewarded with a small smile and a kiss on the cheek. “There’s those pretty eyes,” Alex whispers. “Good. Just a few more questions, okay? Can you do that?” 

_No I think I’m dying._

“Sure.” George whimpers. Alex taps a Xanax out of the bottle. 

“Good. What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.” Alex unscrews the water bottle he has in his other hand. 

“What position did you play on your college basketball team?” Alex kisses him gently. “Open your mouth love.” 

“Point guard.” George opens his mouth and Alex drops the pill onto his tongue. 

“What’s our dog’s name?” Alex helps George take a sip of water. 

“Argos.” George leans his head back against the wall and finally manages to take a deep breath. Alex smiles and strokes his cheek. 

“There you go. Just keep breathing. You’re okay.” 

“Fuck I’m so sorry. I haven’t— _fuck_. I haven’t had a panic attack in months.” George groans and rubs his eyes. “I’m such a fuck up. I’m so sorry, Alex.” Alex shakes his head and soothingly rubs George’s arm. 

“It’s okay, George. I’m not angry, and you’re not a fuck up. You’re allowed to break sometimes, love. No one will ever be mad at you for that.” 

George nods even though he doesn’t believe him, because he’s got a kid now and no one deserves a fucked up dad who has panic attacks in the middle of the day. George takes another big, deep breath and sighs. 

“I’m gonna go upstairs and see Lawrence.” Alex nods and helps him stand up, rubs his back and coos in his ear that he’s so proud of him, that he loves him. 

It makes George feel sick because he’s never deserved anyone’s pride or anyone’s love. He’s never been able to do anything right. Can’t even maintain some semblance of composure during a national fucking crisis. 

Alex kisses him one last time before going to his office, and George quietly goes upstairs to the Residence. 

He finds Lawrence in their room curled up in bed with Argos by his feet, eyes red rimmed and wet. George frowns and slips into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Lawrence looks up and narrows his eyes. 

“Why’re you crying?”

“I got upset over something. Why’re you crying?” 

“I miss my parents.”

“Well alright then.” George motions to the bed. “May I join you?” Lawrence looks a little surprised but he nods and scoots over to make room. George hangs his suit coat on the back of the chair in the corner, climbs in next to him, and rolls over to face him. 

“I’m sorry you miss your parents. Is there anything I can do to help?” 

As soon as he says it, Lawrence’s lip starts to wobble and he reaches out for George, wrinkling his shirt in his hands. 

“Will you hold me?” he cries. “Please?” 

“Of course, honey. Of course. Come here.” George scoots over and pulls Lawrence into his arms, starts stroking his hair and rubbing his arm, cooing sweet words in his ear as he sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, “that you’re upset too. I love you.” 

“I love you too, but you don’t need to worry about me right now. Just let me hold you and try to make it a little better.” George presses a kiss to Lawrence’s hair. “Would you like me to tell you a story? I know you’re a little old for it, but my mom used to tell me stories when I was a kid and it always helped calm me down.” 

“Sure,” Lawrence whispers. “That sounds good.” 

“Yeah?” George smiles and squeezes Lawrence in a hug. “Alright, then let me tell you about this time I went riding my horse Nelson when I was about your age…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been sick and life is busy and writer's block. But here it is. Hope i'm meeting ppl's expectations lmao. 
> 
> Yes the chapter title is a Mumford & Sons song. I used to be a huge slut for M&S in high school.
> 
> Also, there will be more cute Alex/Lawrence moments soon. I was trying to do the POVs pretty evenly back and forth, but this whole thing with Chris felt easier/more appropriate to do under George's POV. 
> 
> Love y'all. Comment and tell me how much I suck.


	9. A Pretty Facade (Except When the Demons Come Knocking)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super emo.
> 
> TW for panic attacks/generally feeling panicky and discussion of anxiety and depression
> 
> That aside, enjoy!

The car rolls up to the front of Maret and Alex leans over to eye the pastel, Vineyard Vines-clad kids milling around outside. A couple boys are tossing a football back and forth under a shady tree, and some girls are sitting on the steps giggling. It reminds him of about every single school he ever went to, minus the obviously nice clothing—pristine new shoes, name brand clothes, the whole shebang. Alex will probably never completely adjust to the whole having money thing, even as he fixes the cuffs of his Armani suit. He shakes his head, sits back in his chair, and tunes back in as George starts telling Lawrence the same thing for the hundredth fucking time. George seems to be more nervous than Lawrence is. 

“Alright buddy, Alex will be back to pick you up at the end of the day, okay?” he says. “If you have any problems just call us or ask Gibbs to help you out. He’ll be here with you all day, but he’ll try to stay out of your way. You just have to have the Secret Service with you.” Lawrence rolls his eyes and hoists his backpack higher on his back. 

“I know George. You’ve told me like a hundred times. I’ll be okay.” Lawrence smiles but his eyes are shifting around nervously, glancing outside the car window to the throngs of kids walking around outside the school. He gulps and pulls at the collar of his sweater. “I guess I’ll see you guys later.” Alex smiles and squeezes his elbow.

“I’ll be here at 3 sharp. George has a meeting at that time, but I’ll be in the motorcade right out front. Don’t worry.”

“Okay… Umm, can you guys walk me inside? Or is that too dangerous?” Lawrence starts nervously chewing on his bottom lip, and Alex smiles and knocks on the plastic partition. He knows exactly how Lawrence is feeling, knows having someone familiar there beside you always helps on the first day at a new school. Even if they’re not your real parents. He taps on the partition again until Tallmadge lowers it and cranes his neck back to look at them.

“Hey Tallmadge, can we walk Lawrence inside?” 

Tallmadge sighs and eyes them warily.

“We’d prefer not, but we figured you guys would want to, so we’ve already got the perimeter secured. Come on.” Alex grins and slides out of the car, grabbing George’s hand. Lawrence shyly stands beside him and hunches over, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Now that won’t do. 

Alex squeezes Lawrence’s shoulder and smiles at him. 

“Dude, you’ve gotta stand up straight and show these kids that they can’t fuck with you—”

“Alex!” George protests. Alex just grins and waves him off. 

“Ignore him,” he stage whispers so George can still hear him, and Lawrence giggles. Alex nods and ruffles his hair. “Always try to project confidence. You’re just as good as these kids. Don’t let them get a leg up on you on the first day. I had a lot of first days at new schools, and they seriously suck, but you just have to go in there, act confident, and not let anyone mess with you. You’re a great kid, Lawrence, so go knock ‘em dead.” Lawrence looks up at him with shining eyes and hugs him tightly, pressing his face into Alex’s chest. 

“Thanks Alex. I love you.” Lawrence pulls out of the hug and gives George one too. “I love you also George.” 

The smile on George’s face almost takes Alex’s breath away. He’ll never get tired of seeing it. 

George puts his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder and they walk up together. As soon as the kids notice them, they come to a sudden stop. One kid drops the football he was holding and just stares at them. It’s almost comical. As the kids continue to stare like they’ve never seen a fucking president before (they probably haven’t), Lawrence chuckles nervously. George smiles his comforting dad smile—it’s a specific smile that Alex has come to recognize—and squeezes his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, they’re staring at us, not you, honey.” 

“I know,” he whispers. “I just forget you’re president sometimes.” 

Alex can’t hold back a little snort as he holds the door open for George and Lawrence. Mrs. Talbott is suspiciously standing right there to greet them with her patented huge ass smile, and Alex tries not to flinch away. She’s probably a nice lady, but her constant positivity kind of freaks him out. He’s never been a big positivity guy. 

“Hello Lawrence, Mr. President, Mr. Hamilton,” Mrs. Talbott gushes. “Welcome to Maret.” Lawrence stares at the ground and nods. George shoots her a polite smile and shrugs. 

“He’s a little nervous.” 

“Not a problem. Lawrence, dear, would you like to go into the cafeteria and meet some of your classmates? They’re all very excited to meet you, especially the boys on the football team. They’re in spring training right now and they can’t wait for you to join them.” 

“Sure,” Lawrence mumbles, and Alex leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t forget to be confident, buddy. You’re gonna do great.” Lawrence nods and straightens up a little, looking up at Mrs. Talbott. 

“I, um, yeah. I’d like that.” She smiles and motions for him to follow her. 

“Lovely. It was nice seeing you two again. Have a nice day.” 

Alex and George both nod as they watch Lawrence trail behind Mrs. Talbott into the cafeteria. From this angle, in his almost-too-big sweater and skinny jeans he looks like George. Alex spent hours pouring over George’s family photo albums one day, amazed at how lanky he used to be. All long limbs and too-big feet that he didn’t know what to do with. 

Once Lawrence disappears down the hall, George turns to Alex and heaves a sigh. “I don’t want to leave him,” he sighs. Alex’s face softens and he pulls George into a hug. 

“I know, baby, but it’s for the best. The kid’s gotta go to school, you know.” 

“Yeah.” George smiles and kisses Alex’s cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you this afternoon? I can push my appointment back or cancel it. It’ll be fine.” Alex rolls his eyes as they exit the school, Secret Service agents slinking along beside them.

“You don’t have to cancel your meeting with the CIA Director, George. It’s okay. I think I can handle rolling up in a car and holding the door open for Lawrence.” 

They slide into the car and George immediately grabs Alex’s hand.

“I know,” George mutters. Then, turning to look at Alex, “have you got those numbers on gun deaths in the past 5 years?” 

“Yeah.” Alex smiles and kisses the underside of George’s jaw. “I already added it to the report. Angelica and I were up all night working on it with some interns. They’re so young and enthusiastic; it’s adorable.” 

“Ah how good it must feel to be enthusiastic about politics. It’s good that they’re not jaded yet.” 

“Are you jaded?” 

George raises an eyebrow and chuckles. 

“I’ve been jaded since I was like 24.” 

*******

“So you’ve been anxious.” 

George tips his head forward with a closed-lip smile in what could be considered affirmation, but isn’t quite there. Dr. Man gives him an even look, quirking one graying eyebrow and waiting. 

Their little staring contest goes on for a few more minutes before George finally breaks, his shoulders sagging, and gives him a tiny nod. Dr. Man smiles, pleased with himself, and absently taps his ballpoint pen against his yellow legal pad. A thick file folder labeled G. Washington sits on the table beside him, balanced somewhat precariously on the edge. It’s making George nervous—he keeps glancing over at it, waiting for it to fall—but he doesn’t ask Dr. Man to move it. 

George takes a deep breath and turns his head to stare at the wall of bookshelves Dr. Man has in his office, stuffed full of thick, aging volumes on psychology and the human brain. He doesn’t look at Dr. Man when he speaks. 

“I’ve been a little anxious,” he says lightly, downplaying it. He’s been more than a little anxious, hasn’t felt like this in a while—the sensation that he’s perched on a precipice and one wrong move will send him tumbling over the edge. He shifts his weight in the red-leather wingback chair, curls his fingers over the armrests. 

He can feel Dr. Man’s eyes on him, tracking his movements. Calculating. Scrutinizing. 

“George,” he finally says gently. “You know it’s okay to be honest with me. I won’t judge you.” George hears Dr. Man pick up his coffee mug—he slurps when he takes a sip—and sets it back down with a thunk. George still doesn’t turn his head, instead moves his attention to the filing cabinets against the wall behind Dr. Man. Four of them in a sleek, dark mahogany that matches the rest of the wood in the room. George swallows and drums his fingers against the leather chair.

“I’ve just been in a…” George trails off trying to find the right set of words to describe how utterly not okay he’s been feeling. It’s almost like he’s on a ship in the middle of the storm, but he hasn’t gotten his sea legs yet. “I’ve been in kind of a bad place,” he finally finishes. “With my sister and Lawrence—”

“Your sister’s son, right?” Dr. Man interrupts. George nods, swallows. 

“My son,” he quietly corrects him, and Dr. Man hums as if that means something. His pen starts scratching against the legal pad, and George bristles, finally turning to stare at him, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Is that a bad thing? That I said he’s my son?” His tone is harsh, harsher than he intended, really, but the words are already out there. 

Dr. Man seems unfazed. Just shrugs and sets his pen down. 

“Not necessarily. I’m just making notes. Sorry for interrupting you.” He smiles and George nods tersely. 

“It’s fine.” He takes a sighing breath and recrosses his legs. “And then there’s the Chris Seider thing. That really… that got to me. Because of Lawrence, I guess. I can’t stop thinking that it could be him, you know?” George chuckles nervously and wipes his sweating palms off on his slacks. “I’ve just really felt like shit.” 

Dr. Man nods and scrawls something else down. George tries to strain his eyes to read it, but he can’t read the large, looping letters upside down. Dr. Man thoughtfully taps his pen against his chin and looks back up at George. 

“Is it all mental? Are you having any physical symptoms?” 

“I’ve been getting migraines more frequently. Alex says it’s probably from the stress.” George shrugs. “I’ve been feeling sick too, all the fucking time. I can barely eat anything without feeling like I’m going to vomit.” George can feel his throat closing up and he swallows hard, the sound so loud in his ears that he’s worried Dr. Man can hear it. Dr. Man just nods encouragingly, his face blank and neutral. George clears his throat. “It’s just really not good. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, you know? And I’m trying to be strong for my kid and keep it together in front of him, and I’m tired of worrying Alex, so I’ve gotta keep it together in front of him too. He doesn’t even know I’m here. He thinks I’ve got a meeting with the CIA Director, a closed-door thing that his security clearance isn’t high enough for.” George chuckles nervously again. Now that he’s talking it’s like he can’t stop. He’s just so fucking tired of holding it all inside. He sucks in a shaky breath and grips the armrests harder. “I feel like a fucking failure. We took Lawrence to school for his first day today and I felt like a nervous wreck, which is _stupid_ because he’s got a security detail and this is a nice school. It’s like my brain can’t process that things are _fine_ , that not everything is a fucking red alert.” George reaches up and angrily rubs tears out of his eyes. “And, you know, it really doesn’t help that I’m feeling horrible all the time. I had a migraine yesterday that was so bad I had to lay on the floor in the bathroom. I couldn’t stop throwing up and it hurt so badly that I almost had a panic attack.” George props his head in his hand and takes a deep breath. “And it’s kind of freaking me out because of Martha, you know? How she had such bad headaches and then she fucking _died_ —”

“Okay, okay. I’m going to stop you there,” Dr. Man says. “Just take a deep breath, George.” 

George nods, not bothering to lift his head, and takes a shaky breath. He feels like he’s going to fucking throw up and suddenly he regrets coming here, regrets talking about it because now that he’s said it, everything’s real. It’s not just some shit buried down inside of him. 

The instinct to just get up and leave is almost overwhelming, and George has to go back to gripping the armrests in an attempt to keep himself seated. He can imagine it so clearly—just getting up, walking out, and never coming back—

“George, you with me?” 

George jumps as Dr. Man reaches over to squeeze his shin. He blinks, stares ahead blankly.

“What?” 

“Are you with me? You seem like you’re off lost in your own thoughts. Try to focus back in on the moment.” 

George blinks again, feeling a ridiculous surge of icy panic sweep from his stomach into his throat, and squeezes the armrests as hard as he can, fingernails digging into the plush, shiny leather. 

“I think I should leave,” he blurts out. Dr. Man frowns, his forehead creasing, and shifts his weight. _Concerned_ , George’s brain helpfully supplies. _He’s concerned._

“Why?” 

“I’m feeling…” George trails off and waves his hand vaguely through the air. “I’m feeling really panicky,” he finishes. “So I think I need to leave. I don’t want to lose my shit here.” 

“Can I at least help you calm down?” 

George squeezes his eyes shut as his head spins and his stomach lurches. 

“I’m sorry but I need to leave.” George gets up on shaky legs and pats his pants to make sure he has his phone and wallet. Dr. Man is still gazing up at him, concern clearly etched into the fine lines of his face. George gives him an apologetic look and hurries out the door. Tallmadge and Tilghman are flanking it and they give him somewhat startled looks when he pushes the office door open. 

“Sir,” Tallmadge says slowly. “I thought we weren’t leaving for another 30 minutes.” George shakes his head and starts walking down the hall, toward the exit. 

“There’s been a change of plans,” George says curtly. And sure, he feels a little bad for being snappy with them because they didn’t fucking do anything, but George’s head is still spinning and his stomach hurts and all he wants to do is curl up in bed and never move again. 

\---

When George gets back to the White House he’s immediately shuffled off to a series of meetings: the leadership of a non-profit that provides free sex ed to high school students, some lobbyists for family-owned farms, Secretary Randolph. It’s all a blur, and George feels like he’s floating. He must keep it somewhat together, though, because no one gives him any weird stares and he’s at least somewhat aware that he’s saying things that make sense. So everything is fine. 

George is aggressively, totally fine. 

By the time he has his last meeting of the day he’s dragging his ass through the motions. He doesn’t even bother to look at the schedule, just wearily tells Betsy to send them in. 

He’s pleasantly surprised when he sees Jefferson stroll in, bright purple tie and all. He plops down on the couch across from George and studies his face, frowning. 

“You look like shit, George,” he says after a few seconds. “Are you okay?” 

George gapes at him, slightly taken aback, before bursting into laughter. 

Thomas stares at him as he doubles over and keeps laughing, the sound bordering on hysterical, for several more seconds because he is so utterly _not_ okay that it’s fucking hilarious. 

Once he finally stops laughing and wipes the tears out of his eyes, he looks at Jefferson and shakes his head. 

“I’m not feeling my best at the moment,” he says somewhat cryptically, letting the implications of his words hang in the air. Jefferson frowns and shifts his weight, recrossing his long legs. 

“Well I’m sorry.” He scratches his cheek and purses his lips. “You need a fucking vacation, Wash.”

“I know. I’m thinking of going to Mount Vernon next weekend. Lawrence hasn’t been since he was a baby, so I doubt he even remembers it.” George rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. “Anyway, enough about me, how’re you?” 

“I’m alright. James has been sick the past few days so I’ve been a little frazzled. And the whole Tea Party strong arming the rest of the party is really getting me down too.” Jefferson smiles ruefully and shrugs. “Party infighting is always fun.” 

George smiles in sympathy and picks at a thread on his pants. 

“That’s pretty awful, yeah. I’m not exactly _that_ sad about it since I’m, you know, a Democrat, but I’m sorry for all the upheaval it’s causing for you.” 

Jefferson laughs and nods before leaning forward and giving George a serious look. 

“Right.” He pauses. “Look, I need to ask you something,” he says, and George nods, eyeing him warily.

“Okay,” he says slowly. Jefferson steeples his fingers under his chin and gives him an appraising look. 

“Are you and the Democratic leadership in Congress working on crafting a bill to fight police brutality?” 

George coughs, taken aback, and presses his lips together. 

“What would you do if I said yes?” 

“Support it.” Jefferson’s lips quirk up into a brief smile, and George lets his mouth drop open for a moment. He shakes his head and shifts his weight, leaning forward.

“Really?”

Jefferson nods. George can’t keep the smile off his face. 

“Thanks Tom, that really means a lot.” 

“What happened to that kid—”

“Chris,” George says. Jefferson nods. 

“Right. What happened to Chris was fucked up. I may be pro-small government or whatever, but I’m not pro-letting black kids die in the streets at the hands of white cops. That’s just twisted. Any minority who doesn’t support it needs to think long and hard about what they value.” 

George nods, momentarily choked up, and smiles. 

“I agree.” He clears his throat and swallows. “I’m going to speak at his funeral tomorrow. You’re welcome to come.” 

Jefferson’s eyes are shinning when he nods. 

“I’d like that. Thanks George.”

George just nods and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. A calm quiet settles between them and George savors it for a few more seconds before looking back over at Jefferson. 

“You know if you do this you might lose your re-election.”

“I know.” 

“You’re willing to do that?”

“I’d rather be able to sleep at night than vote in the Senate chamber.” 

“Air Force One leaves Andrew’s at 10. I’ll make sure to notify the Secret Service that you’ll be going with us.” 

“I’ll see you then, Mr. President.” Jefferson stands and George mirrors him, clasping his hand in a warm handshake. 

“Have a good night, Senator.” 

Jefferson’s lips curl into a ghost of a smile as he leaves the Oval Office, closing the door softly behind him. 

\---

Dinner later that night is a subdued affair. 

George doesn’t have much of an appetite, just picks at his salad, and Lawrence is quiet. There’s a distinct air of heaviness about him, and Alex shoots George a concerned look across the table. George sighs and pushes his plate back, takes a sip of his ice water. 

“Hey buddy, did you have a good day at school?” Lawrence bristles.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says curtly. 

George and Alex share another look. Now it’s Alex’s turn to sigh. He reaches for Lawrence’s hand, but he jerks away, folding his hands in his lap. Hurt flashes across Alex’s face and George aches for him. 

“Lawrence, you know that you can talk to us right?” Alex asks softly. Lawrence chuckles, unkind, and shakes his head. 

“Why do we always have to talk about shit? Can’t something happen and us _not_ talk about it?” Lawrence looks up and glares at first Alex, then George. “You’re always bugging me about talking; it’s so annoying. School was fine, okay? Jesus.” 

George winces and nervously drums his fingers on the table.

“Alright, well, we’re always here to talk if you need it. We love you.” 

“I know. Can I go to my room now?” 

“Of course,” Alex says tiredly, and George’s chest aches when he sees the weariness in Alex’s face. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. The dark bags under his eyes. 

Lawrence nods curtly and shoves his chair back from the table. He stalks out of the room without a second glance at them, and the sound of his bedroom door slamming echoes through the hallway. George sighs and massages his temples. 

“So he’s back to hating us I guess,” Alex says sarcastically. “It’s like we take one step forward, four steps back.” 

“I know.” George sits up and pushes his chair back. The smell of the food still on the table is nauseating and he feels his stomach turn. “I’m going to lie down if you want to join me.”

“You’re going to sleep at 7:30 at night?”

“I just thought it would be nice to lie around in bed together, maybe watch a movie or something. I’ve missed you.” 

Alex’s face softens and he nods eagerly. 

“That does sound nice,” he admits. George nods, already imagining how fucking good it’s going to feel to lie down and not move. He has to remind himself not to run to their bedroom, starts stripping out of his clothes as soon as he’s through the door. 

Once he’s in his boxers and a t-shirt, he collapses down on the bed and wiggles under the blankets. He lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs. He always feels better in bed, and when Alex curls up beside him, George squeezes him in a hug. 

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he says. Beside him, he feels Alex moving, hears the blankets rustling. 

“Did you have a bad day?” Alex asks as the TV turns on, CNN filling the room. George hears Alex start switching channels, catching snippets of conversations from the shows as he passes them. He yawns and smiles sleepily when he feels Argos curl up at their feet. 

“It wasn’t the best,” he says. “But I’m feeling better now.” 

“Yeah? That’s great, honey.” 

George figures Alex has finally settled on a channel when he hears the Friends intro. Alex settles down in George’s arms and kisses his jaw. There’s no suggestion behind it—just a soft, quick kiss that makes George smile. He hums in agreement and feels himself start to nod off. He tries to open his eyes but he’s just so fucking _tired_ , still feeling wiped from how sick he was yesterday, that he presses an answering kiss to Alex’s hair and lets his mouth go slack as he starts to nod off. 

Alex doesn’t say anything, just turns the TV down a little and traces lazy patterns on George’s stomach. 

George falls asleep with Alex’s hand soft and comforting on his stomach. 

\---

When George wakes up, he’s facing the wall and the room is pitch-black. He blinks groggily, still half asleep and caught up in the odd dream he was having, and props himself up on his elbow. Alex is sound asleep beside him, his ass pressed up against George’s own. 

George sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’s still trying to figure out what woke him up when he hears a quiet sniffle and the shuffling of feet. 

Lawrence slowly tiptoes over, obviously trying to be quiet even as he lets out a little gasping sob. George immediately turns the lamp on and squints at Lawrence in the sudden light. His eyes are red and puffy and snot is dripping out of his nose onto his top lip. George frowns in sympathy and beckons him closer. 

“Hey bud, did you have a bad dream?” 

Lawrence stares at the floor and nods. 

“I’m sorry. I know you aren’t feeling well—”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” George says automatically and Lawrence narrows his eyes. 

“I only worry about you because I care about you,” Lawrence says quietly. He sniffs and wipes his nose off on the back of his hand. Beside George, Alex grunts and sits up, blinking sleepily and pushing his hair out of his face. 

“Lawrence?” he slurs. “What’s wrong?” 

“I had a nightmare.” He chews his bottom lip and drops his gaze back down to the floor. “I know I was really mean earlier, but, um, can I lay with you guys?”

Alex scoots over a little and pats the space between them. 

“Of course, honey. Come on up here.” 

Once Lawrence is comfortably situated between them, George turns the lamp off and settles back down. He can hear Lawrence’s quiet breathing behind him and he smiles into his pillow. 

As he drifts back off, he thinks about how nice it feels to be part of a loving family again. And even though he thinks he might be losing it, he can trick himself into thinking that maybe things will be okay because he’s got a loving husband and a wonderful child. 

It’s a pretty facade—one that George is more than happy to hide behind for as long as he can. 

Too bad facades rarely last very long. 

No one ever knows what to do when the demons come knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a lil longer. Life is very busy. (I got to cover a Trump rally from the press pool for a journalism class and it was fucking surreal. My friend and I got press credentials. Breitbart didn't.)
> 
> Also sorry this is so damn EMO. Poor George. Don't worry; he'll get some help eventually. It'll be alright. 
> 
> I will explain more abt Lawrence and his school in the next chap. It'll be in Alex's POV.
> 
> George and Jefferson's friendship makes me really happy btw.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated. I love hearing what you guys think!


	10. The Test, the Disappointment, the Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is in Lawrence's POV, and it's happening at the same time as the last chapter (and goes a little bit into the next day there at the end). Basically this is describing his first day of school in his POV.
> 
> ADDED NOTE b/c the math problems I chose are apparently hard as hell (I mean it totally looks like it! I couldn't solve that shit) I just looked up math problems around an 8th/9th grade level ok blame the internet. I figured since his school is super fancy and advanced that they'd all be little geniuses. I'M SORRY.

“Alright everyone, please open your textbooks to page 230. We’re going to take a quick pop quiz. If you remember from Friday we started a new chapter and learned how to work with radical expressions. I want everyone to work problems 1 through 3, showing all your work. When you’re finished you can turn it in on my desk. You have 10 minutes.” 

The teacher, Mrs… Something—Pendleton maybe?—smiles and puts a timer up on the screen. Lawrence gulps and pulls a piece of paper out of his notebook. He squints down at the first problem and frowns. 

_Multiply and write your answer in simplest form:_ -√3 (-√5)

He didn’t learn this in California yet; his school must’ve been on a different curriculum course. He shifts his weight and nervously taps his pen against his textbook. Maybe the next question will be easier. 

_Simplify the radical expression:_ √x 15

He feels a surge of panic and takes a deep breath. It’s going to be fine. He’s not that good at math—he’s not really a numbers guy—but he can do this. He glances at the third question 

_Simplify. Rationalize the denominator:_ 3/(-8 + √2)

So he doesn’t know any of them. Okay. This is fine. 

The girl in the desk beside him puts down her sparkly pink pencil and practically sashays up to the teacher, obviously proud to be the first one to turn in her quiz. Lawrence grits his teeth and swallows. He can feel tears pressing against the back of his eyes and all he wants is to _leave_.

He angrily rubs his eyes and takes a shaky breath. His teacher informs everyone that they have five minutes left. A wave of students stand up and turn in their papers. Lawrence’s is still empty. 

He glances up at the timer on the board. Four minutes. 

_Fuck._

He’s going to get a bad grade and fail the class and disappoint Alex and George. They’ve been nothing but kind to him. Gentle and patient, and Lawrence doesn’t deserve it.

Three minutes, thirty seconds. 

Lawrence feels sick. 

He stares at the problems, shakily scrawls some random answers that mean absolutely nothing. 

Two minutes. 

The room suddenly feels unbearably hot and he regrets wearing his sweater. He pushes his sleeves up, shudders. Stares at his page some more. 

One minute. 

He stands up and hands his teacher his paper, quietly tells her that he’s going to the bathroom, and leaves the room. 

The hallway is completely empty and he tries to remember where the bathroom is, starts quickly walking in one direction. The rows of lockers and handmade signs blur past him as he practically breaks into a jog. When he finally finds the bathroom he sighs in relief and shoves it open, stumbling inside. 

The bathroom is blessedly empty. He goes into one of the green stalls—everything is green in this school—and takes some deep breaths. He feels sticky with sweat and yanks his sweater off. There are sweat stains on the armpits of his white undershirt. He squeezes the sweater in his hands and brings it up to his nose. His mom bought it for him a couple days before she died, surprised him with it because she remembered him eyeing it at the store one day. Lawrence whimpers and tries to push the image of his mother and father smiling at him out of his mind, but it’s no use. He thinks about them all the time. Dreams about them. Craves their hugs and the sound of their voices, and it makes him unbearably guilty because he has George and Alex who love him so much that it’s almost suffocating. They’re so good to him—George who always seems a little sad but obviously cares deeply, and Alex who’s goofy and incredibly patient with George and him. They remind him that they love him all the time, and Lawrence loves them back—he really does—but he also misses his parents so much that it hurts. 

Lawrence blinks hard and shakily pulls his sweater back on. He’s going to be okay. He can do this. 

He goes back to class and takes notes, keeping his head down and avoiding the teacher’s questions. 

After the class ends, the girl with the sparkly pencil introduces herself as Nelly and Lawrence nods, eyeing her warily. She’s got long, wavy light-brown hair and creamy skin that reminds Lawrence of porcelain. She smooths her skirt down and smiles at him, tells him how nice it is to meet him. He just nods and tells her that it was nice to meet her, then leaves the class clutching his backpack straps. Keeps his head down, staring at the green tiles in the floor. 

\---

Lawrence spends the rest of the day trying not to cry, which is pretty pathetic, but he can’t really help it. 

He knew today wasn’t going to be a good day. He can always tell when it’s going to be bad—there’s a feeling that he can’t exactly describe. It’s ominous, like he’s waiting for a thunderstorm. Sometimes he just feels unsettled, off kilter and foggy. Exhausted. 

He’s tired a lot now. 

And he’s smart enough to know that this isn’t good, that he’s having some sort of mental health _thing_ but he doesn’t want to bother George and Alex with his stupid shit, so he just takes everything one day at a time. 

During lunch, which he spends sitting by himself, he gets a text from Alex:

_How’s it going?_

For some reason it makes tears prick at the corner of Lawrence’s eyes and he quickly rubs them away. 

_It’s ok. Everything’s green._

_Yikes. How are your classes going?_

Lawrence bites his lip, sighs softly. 

_They’re ok._

His phone screen lights up with a call from Alex and he flushes, hastily swipes his phone open, and hurries out of the cafeteria. A teacher glances at him as he walks out but he ignores her.

“Hey,” he says as he starts aimlessly walking down one of the hallways, trying to get away from the noise of the cafeteria. He slides down to sit against the wall and closes his eyes. 

“Hey. Everything okay?” Alex asks. Lawrence hears keyboard clicks and papers rustling. Alex must have him on speaker phone. He swallows and lets out a slow breath. 

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’m just tired.” 

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” 

_No._

“Yeah. I guess I’m just not used to getting up so early.” He tries to keep his tone light, but he can practically picture the frown on Alex’s face. 

“Okay,” Alex says slowly, unconvinced. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Have a good rest of your day.”

“Thanks. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

Alex hangs up and Lawrence sets his phone on the floor beside him, lets his head knock back against the wall as he closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. 

He didn’t know it was possible to miss something this much, like a never-ending ache in his chest. 

He misses California and he misses his parents. He misses the way his dad would make pancakes in the morning and sing along to the radio. He misses the way his mom would write notes on the napkins in his lunchbox, even though he told her he was too old for them. 

He thinks about every single argument he ever had with them—over not getting a toy he wanted, or not doing his chores, or being in a bad mood after losing a football game. He replays all the stupid, mean stuff he ever did and feels so _guilty_ because if he knew that he was going to lose them, he would’ve never raised his voice or shouted ‘I hate you,’ because he never did, and now they’re not here for him to tell them that he’s sorry. 

If he could have one wish it would be to have his parents back. Hands down. Without a doubt. And sure, maybe that also makes him a little guilty because he knows how much George and Alex love him, but he also knows that they’d never blame him for wanting his real parents. 

Lawrence squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, tries not to cry. 

Everything’s going to be okay. He can do this. It’s fine. 

\---

After the rest of his academic classes, Lawrence goes and meets with the football coach so they can decide where they want him to go: JV or the middle school team. He knows he can play JV, he did it in California. He’s fast, agile, good at breaking tackles and running to the outside. He knows he’s a valuable asset, isn’t above tooting his own horn.

But Coach Engelberg seems to think otherwise. 

He’s got Lawrence’s chart in front of him and he raises his eyes to look Lawrence up and down, appraising him. 

“You’re 5 foot 2?” 

Lawrence nods. He’s always been tall for his age. Coach Engelberg nods and purses his lips. 

“But you only weigh 80 pounds?” He narrows his eyes and sets Lawrence’s chart down. “You’re gonna have to bulk up if you want to play JV. You’re too small. I’ve got a boy who’s 5 foot 1 and weighs 98 pounds. He can punch through the line, he’s strong, and he’s fast. You’re not quite there, son.” 

Lawrence grits his teeth, lowers his head as his face heats up. 

“Okay,” he says. “So I’ll start for the middle school team?”

“It’s up to Coach Williams if you start. I’ll talk to him about it. You’ll start spring training next week. Come by and get your gear and practice uniform tomorrow.” Coach Engelberg takes a swig out of a soda can and stuffs Lawrence’s file into a drawer. Lawerence swallows past the lump in his throat and squeezes his fists. 

“Thanks,” he spits out before turning on his heel and stalking out of the office. He walks through the locker room, ignoring the looks of the boys who are already straggling in and changing into their pads. Lawrence is so angry he feels sick. 

He keeps walking until he’s outside the front of the school, tries to take a deep breath and stop the trembling in his hands, but it’s no use. He wants to scream. Fuck this stupid school with their stupid football team and their stupid green _everything—_

“Lawrence, hey!” 

Lawrence looks up to see Alex leaning out the window of a black SUV, and he flushes, trying to ignore the gawking looks from the other students. 

He keeps his head down as he strides up to the car and flings the door open, slamming it as hard as he can once he’s inside. Alex shoots him a concerned look and tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off and stares out the window. He hears Alex nervously shift his weight before he speaks: “Hey, did you have a good day?” 

“It was fine.” Lawrence takes a deep breath and tries not to start crying. He hasn’t really cried yet today. He can do this. 

“Okay,” Alex says slowly. “Well, um, it’s good to have you back.” He pauses, shifts his weight again. “Did you talk to the football coach?” 

Lawrence bristles, squeezes his fists as the first few tears start to fall. Why can’t everyone just leave him the fuck alone?

“Can you please just leave me alone?” he snaps. “It was _fine_ , okay? Everything was great.” 

Alex inhales sharply, obviously tries to cover it up, but Lawrence refuses to feel guilty. He doesn’t need to be coddled all the damn time. He’s 12 years old, not four. 

They don’t talk the rest of the way home. 

When they get to the White House, Lawrence goes straight to his room and slams the door shut before throwing himself onto his bed. He presses his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs. 

\---

After his nightmare, he sleeps well in Alex and George’s bed. 

The next morning he wakes up before them, can hear them both breathing softly on either side of him, so he carefully extricates himself, crawling between them and sliding off the end of the bed. Argos looks up at him but puts his head back down after Lawrence starts to tiptoe out of the room. He looks both ways before hurrying down the hallway and slipping into his room. 

It’s 5:26 a.m.. He’s got a decent amount of time before they’ll come to wake him up for school. He goes into the bathroom and studies himself in the mirror. He looks exhausted—heavy bags under reddened eyes. Perfect. 

He’s only done this a few times, usually feels guilty when he does, but he can’t handle going back to that school. Not today. He needs an emotional break, just enough time to get himself together enough to actually face four and a half more years of school. 

Plus, he already got away with it once. George and Alex were obviously giving him an out, though. This time they won’t be so willing to go along with it. 

So Lawrence pulls on a bulky sweatshirt over his t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and starts doing some jumping jacks, grinning when he feels himself start to break out into a sweat. 

He checks the time: 5:50. 10 more minutes. 

Time to put the finishing touches on his performance. 

He peals the sweatshirt and sweatpants off, grins when he sees the sweat stains on his shirt and the way his skin is shining. He goes into the bathroom and tries to mess it up a little: throws his towel on the ground, leaves the seat up, grabs his trashcan and empties it on the floor, brings it into his bedroom and puts it on the bedside table like he thought he’d need it.

5:55. He flips off all the lights and climbs into bed, trashing around a little to mess the blankets up. 

5:59. He curls into the fetal position and squeezes his eyes shut, practices doing a little whimper. Peaks at the clock. 

6:00. 

“Lawrence, it’s time to get up.” 

Alex knocks and Lawrence lets out a low groan in response. He always knew he should’ve gotten involved in the drama department. 

Alex knocks again before quietly pushing the door open. “Hey bud, what’s wrong? I thought you’d still be in our bed?” 

Lawrence whimpers and curls up tighter, tucks his head down between his knees. Alex walks into the room and closes the door behind him. “What’s wrong Lawrence?” 

“My head hurts,” he whispers. 

He’s seen it happen to George when he gets his headaches. He’d looked it up—migraines. They seem easy enough to fake. There’s no way to prove that his head _doesn’t_ hurt. And apparently they run in the family. 

Alex approaches the bed slowly and hesitantly reaches out to touch Lawrence’s shoulder. Lawrence flinches away and whimpers. 

“Fuck, okay, Lawrence, honey, can you sit up for a second? I need to give you some medicine. I’ll be right back.” 

“I’m dizzy,” Lawrence whispers and boy is he laying it on thick. Somewhere in the back of his mind he feels guilty, but he can’t imagine going back to school. Not today, at least. Doesn’t want to have kids stare at him or fail another fucking math quiz. 

He pretends to shudder when Alex touches him again. 

“I know, but this medicine should help a little. How about I go get it and then you can sit up. I’ll be right back.” 

Lawrence does feel a little guilty when he hears the worry in Alex’s voice, knows that if Alex is this worried then George is going to be a nervous wreck. 

He knows something is wrong with George—that he’s got some sort of mental thing going on. He used to hear his parents talk about it, knows that Aunt Martha dying was hard on him. Lawrence was only a baby so he doesn’t remember it, but he used to hear his parents whispering about George not doing well, remembers his mom mentioning something about child abuse the night of his grandmother’s funeral. He tried asking her about it—he was too young to completely understand—and she told him not to worry about it. 

But Lawrence isn’t dumb and it’s easy enough to piece things together. He knows his grandfather was a drunk, that his Uncle Lawrence died young, that George went to the war and one of his friends died. It’s funny, the things adults will say in front of children. 

Lawrence can hear George and Alex whispering in the hallway so he lets out a groan for good measure.

“Hey Lawrence, we’ve got some medicine for you,” George whispers. “Can I help you sit up? I know it hurts.” 

George sounds genuinely remorseful and upset, and Lawrence feels a pang of guilt. 

He slowly uncurls himself and sits up, hissing in pain and hunching over. George gently strokes his hair. “Okay honey, Alex is going to give you a pill and I’ll help you drink some water. The medicine should make you feel a little better.” 

“Okay,” Lawrence whispers. He raises his head and accepts the pill Alex drops on his tongue, takes a few small sips of the water George gives him. 

“Good job, buddy,” Alex says. “You ready to lay down again?” 

Lawrence nods and slides back down, reassuming his curled up position. He moans to drive it home, clutches his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, shivering when George smooths his hand over his forehead.

“It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for. Do you need anything else right now? I have to go to Boston later today but if you need it, Alex can stay.” 

Lawrence shakes his head. “No that’s okay. I don’t want you to miss your thing.”

“I really don’t mind staying,” Alex insists. “I promise.”

“I’m okay.” Lawrence shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Alright,” Alex says reluctantly. “Well if you start feeling worse you can call Gibbs in here. He’ll help you.” 

Lawrence gives them a tiny nod.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I love you.” 

They both whisper that they love him too and close the door behind them. Lawrence rolls over so his back is to the door and relaxes. Maybe he can get in a couple more hours of sleep. 

He tries not to focus on the guilt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The math part is me all of high school tbh. Thank god I don't have to do that shit anymore. I imagine that Lawrence is like super duper smart/intelligent but his brain just can't do numbers
> 
> He's such a little badass. I never had enough courage to fake being sick lmao
> 
> I know I promised cute Alex moments but this chapter felt easier in Lawrence's POV and I wanted to delve a little into how he's feeling about all this. 
> 
> Leave me comments and lemme know what you think! I may do more of Lawrence's POV in the future.


	11. Like Father, Like Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unabashed use of two cliches. Enjoy!

_Richmond, 2009_

“Betty just had her son,” George says as soon as he walks through the front door. Martha looks up from where she’s standing in the kitchen chopping what looks like basil. She smiles and pushes a bottle of beer across the island for him. He graciously accepts it and takes a long sip. 

“That’s great,” Martha says with a smile, her eyes lighting up. “How big is he?” 

“7 pounds 8 ounces. 22.4 inches long. Here, she sent me a picture.” George digs his phone out of his pocket and clicks over to his messages. He holds the phone out for Martha to see and she hums appreciatively, her eyes dancing. 

“He’s got your nose,” she teases. “All you Washingtons look the same.”

George rolls his eyes and comes around the island to drag her into a hug from behind. He hooks his chin over her shoulder and breathes her in. 

“She named him Lawrence,” he says softly. Martha makes a small noise of acknowledgement and squeezes his wrist. 

“That’s lovely, sweetheart.” 

George nods and kisses her neck. 

“We better start having babies so she doesn’t take all the good names.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he flushes and steps away from Martha to grab his beer. He twists it apprehensively in his hands. They haven’t really talked about having kids yet—not seriously, at least. George chuckles and takes a long pull of his beer. He wipes his mouth off with his hand and shifts his weight. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he finally says anxiously. 

“George—”

“I mean, I’m governor. Do we really want to bring a kid into _that?_ Maybe we should wait—”

_“George,”_ Martha says, grabbing his hands. His mouth snaps shut and he smiles sheepishly. 

“Sorry.” 

Martha shakes her head and pulls him down into a sweet kiss. 

“Of course I want to have a baby with you. I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up.” 

George’s mouth pops open and he nods, laughing breathlessly. 

“Oh, well, okay. That’s great. We, uh, so you want to—we’re going to start trying?” George laughs again and Martha nods her head, smiling kindly. 

“Yes. I think it’s about time, don’t you?” 

“Before we do this, I need you to know that I don’t know if I’ll be a very good father,” George says honestly. “I didn’t exactly have a great father figure in my life. I don’t really know how…” George trails off and looks away, staring at the wall behind Martha’s head. She makes a tsking sound and cups his cheek. 

“George, look at me.” He reluctantly looks back into her eyes. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I know it.”

“Martha—”

“I know it,” she repeats. 

“Okay,” George whispers. 

“There’s no one else I’d rather have a child with.”

He wants to ask her why but he nods instead, capturing her lips in another kiss. He’s always wanted a child—wanted to prove that he’s not his father—but, like they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. George hopes he can change that.

\---

_Washington D.C., Present Day_

George wearily starts the shower and tries to ignore the anxiety creeping up his throat. Lawrence is fine. He’s going to be _fine._

“Hey George?” 

George jumps when Alex walks up and touches his back, his fingertips cold against George’s bare back. 

“Hey,” he says as he turns around and presses a quick kiss to Alex’s forehead. “Are you going to join me?” He motions to the shower and Alex nods his head. 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

They step into the shower and George sighs as the water pounds into his tired muscles. He feels drained, like he’s Sergeant Major George Washington sweating under heavy fatigues in the Iraqi desert again. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s getting older or because of all the stress. Either one. Maybe both. 

George heaves a sigh and watches as Alex lathers shampoo into his hair, shaking his hair back in a silent offer to George. He gladly accepts, stepping forward and helping Alex wash it out. It’s cathartic in a way—going through the motions of a familiar routine. He’s always loved showering with Alex. 

“You’re quiet,” Alex murmurs as he turns around in George’s arms and presses a kiss to his jaw. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“Just kind of tired.” George pauses, smiling when Alex pops the cap on the soap and drizzles it over the washcloth. He gently runs it over George’s arms and George lets his eyes slide closed. Alex hums in response and rubs the washcloth over George’s chest. 

“We’ll get some coffee and a quick breakfast before heading to Andrew’s.” Alex finishes washing George’s body and he passes the washcloth to George so he can return the favor. He takes a second to press a soft kiss to Alex’s cheek before getting to work. 

He will never tire of Alex’s body, the soft brown skin, all his sharp edges, the soft swell of his stomach. 

George loves every inch of him.

\---

Jefferson is already waiting when George and Alex arrive, Madison’s absence at his side glaringly obvious. George smiles and pulls him into a brief hug that Jefferson returns with a sharp squeeze. George quirks an eyebrow but Jefferson has already moved on to Alex, reaching forward to shake his hand. 

They file onto Air Force One, making idle small talk to distract themselves from where they’re going. George tries to keep up with the conversation as it inevitably turns to politics and griping about the Tea Party— _“they’re going to be the death of my party”_ —but his heart isn’t in it. Instead, he sits back and lets the conversation volley back-and-forth. Alex scoots to the edge of his chair as he launches into an impassioned tirade. George closes his eyes. 

He dreams about his brother, which is always disconcerting. By the time Alex shakes him awake, everything feels all jumbled up in his head. He blinks hard and rubs his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up some. His dream is already fading from his memory and he tries to hold onto the wisps—the foggy image of his brother’s smiling face, the feeling of his presence in the room. 

“Hey George? You okay?” Alex asks softly.

George yawns, his jaw cracking, and nods. He conjures up a smile and tucks a piece of Alex’s hair behind his ear.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Alex shrugs and pulls his suit jacket on. George does the same as he tries to ignore the weight settling in his stomach. The three of them exit Air Force One and shuffle into the motorcade. Jefferson seems a little amused—he’s never ridden in a motorcade before—and George can’t help but smile at his friend. 

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” George asks and Jefferson looks over, returning his smile. 

“It is, though I feel bad for everyone who’s getting stopped in traffic because of us.” 

George hums in response and settles back in the seat, resting a hand on Alex’s knee. He looks up from where he’s typing on his phone and smiles. _I love you_ , his eyes seem to say. George squeezes his knee and goes back to staring out the window. It’s a rainy day—cold even though it’s already spring—and George watches the raindrops racing down the window. The cathedral looms ahead of them in the distance and something twists in George’s stomach. He has to take a deep breath, swallows down a surge of nausea. 

Suddenly he wishes that he’d stayed home with Lawrence. They could’ve laid in bed together—George knows that he always feels better having someone there with him during his migraines. It’s comforting to know that someone is there for you. He’d much rather be sitting around in bed with Lawrence reading briefings than here. Outside the window he catches the glimpse of a storefront that’s been busted in. Shards of glass are glittering on the ground and a line of yellow police tape is roping it off. His stomach churns. 

This isn’t supposed to happen in his country.

\---

George, Alex, and Jefferson duck their heads and hurry into the cathedral as cameras flash and people there to pay their respects outside shout and cheer. Alex’s hand is warm in George’s own and he lets it ground him: the familiar weight and feel, the little callous Alex has on his middle finger from writing. 

Once the doors are shut behind them they all relax and walk into the church. It’s a beautiful cathedral and George cranes his neck up to look at the ornate ceiling. The stained-glass windows are a bright contrast to the pale, tan architecture. As they make their way to their seats in the first pew, George takes some time to admire them. He’s about to sit down in the seat marked ‘reserved’ when Georgia Seider walks up. George feels his throat starting to close up just looking at her, imaging how _sad_ she must be feeling. He pulls her into a hug, murmurs that he’s so sorry for her loss. When she pulls away her eyes are shining. George clears his throat. 

“Ms. Seider, this is my husband,” he manages to rasp. Alex smiles sympathetically and hugs her. She conjures up a smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hamilton.” Alex nods and smiles faintly. Jefferson extends his hand and Georgia shakes it. 

“Thank you for inviting us to your son’s funeral,” he says warmly. She dabs at her eyes with a white handkerchief she has clutched in her other hand. 

“Thank you Senator. It means a lot that you’re here.” 

They settle into a somewhat awkward silence after that, until George clears his throat and tries his best to smile. 

“This is a beautiful cathedral, Georgia.” 

“Chris always loved coming here,” she says softly, pressing her cherry-red lips together. Some of her lipstick rubs off but George doesn’t see any point in telling her. He smiles faintly and looks around again. Two rows of potted plants line the red-carpeted steps leading up to the altar. A cherry wood coffin is displayed on a velvet draped stand. George has to look away, turns to stare at the stained glass windows that line the walls. He doesn’t recognize most of them, but he does know Saint Peter. He seems to stare back at George as he cradles the key to heaven in his arms. Maybe if George was religious he would wonder if Chris was let into heaven. But then again, if there is a god, George would hope that someone like Chris would be escorted right in. 

\---

As the ceremony draws closer, the cathedral slowly fills with mourners. It seems like Chris’ entire school came and George wishes, not for the first time, that Lawrence was here with them. The children all file into the pews with their heads down, bleary, red-rimmed eyes trained on the ground. It makes George sick to his fucking stomach. These children shouldn’t be here. None of them should. 

When the ceremony finally starts, the priest leads them all in a prayer. George bows his head but keeps his eyes open, choosing instead to stare at the crimson carpet below his feet. The priest drones on about how Chris is in a better place and George wants to laugh because no he’s not. He’s dead. A little boy is dead and this guy is asking them to thank God? 

The ceremony is long and arduous, emotionally draining as Chris’ friends and family go up to eulogize him. George can barely breathe, feels like all the air is being sucked out of the room, leaving them all gasping for air like fishes out of water. When Georgia goes up to speak, George is hit with a flash of heat and his head spins. She starts to cry and George has to bow his head because he doesn’t want anyone to see him cry. His tears run down the line of his nose and drip onto his slacks. Alex reaches over and grabs his hand, and George squeezes so tightly that he’s worried he’s going to hurt Alex’s hand. Alex just kisses his knuckles and squeezes right back. 

George can feel a headache building at the base of his skull and he takes a deep, sighing breath. All he wants is to be home with Lawrence. He needs to hold his son—needs to remind himself that Lawrence is okay. He’s alive. 

Chris is dead, but Lawrence isn’t. 

George shudders and closes his eyes. Images of Chris’ face flash in his mind: the little trickle of blood running out of the corner of his mouth, the glazed look on his dead face. George nearly gags. What kind of fucking president is he if he can’t keep American children safe? He should be disgusted with himself. He has to do more, has to make sure this never happens again. No child deserves to die, but George feels powerless to stop it. Hate is a powerful motivator. 

\---

George is the last to speak. He hadn’t wanted to do it at first, but after Georgia begged him to do it, he’d acquiesced. 

He walks to the altar on shaky legs, has to fight off a wave of dizziness as he grips the sides of the podium. He looks up at the stained glass windows on the back wall—anything to keep his eyes off the coffin in front of him. Saint Peter stares right back. He takes a breath.

“I wish I wasn’t here right now,” he finally says, hating how shaky his voice is. “None of us should be here right now, but because of one man’s hatred, here we are.” He takes a deep breath and blinks. “No American child ever deserves to die, especially not this way. Our law enforcement apparatus is there to protect us, not hurt us, and what happened to Christopher is a systematic failure of our criminal justice system—a hate crime motivated by the color of Chris’ skin.” George pauses, takes a second to compose himself. “Chris was the same age as my son, Lawrence, and that’s terrifying because what if it happens to him? It’s easy for some people to forget how real racism is, but there are some forms of hatred that will always live in people’s hearts, forms of hatred that may not be visible on the surface. Chris shouldn’t be dead right now. Chris shouldn’t be dead and we shouldn’t be here, but here we are, so now we have to learn to move forward. We have to decide where to go from here. We have to build an America where everyone feels welcomed and an America where everyone feels safe. We have to build an America where black boys and girls aren't afraid to walk outside at night. _This is on us_ …”

\---

The plane ride home seems to last forever. George spends the whole time staring out at the sky, his mind numb. It’s like he doesn’t have enough space left inside of his heart to feel anything else. He’s so fucking _tired._

By the time they make it back to the White House, George just wants to curl up in bed and never get up again. Instead, he and Alex go immediately to the Residence to check on Lawrence and freshen up.

George knocks hesitantly on Lawrence door and Alex stands next to him, worrying his lip between his teeth and rocking on his heels. After there’s no answer, George slowly pushes the door open. He’s surprised to see Lawrence sitting up in bed with a pair of clunky headphones on, head bowed over his iPad. The screen flashes and reflects on his face in the dim lighting of the room. George clears his throat and flips the light on. Lawrence immediately looks up, his mouth falling open as his eyes widen in surprise. He quickly takes the headphones off and balls his fists in his lap. 

“Oh, hey, I, uh, I started feeling better,” he stutters meekly, but George has the gut feeling that Lawrence isn’t telling the truth. He walks farther into the room, Alex beside him, and crosses his arms. 

“Lawrence, did you lie to us about being sick?” 

“No—”

“I don’t suggest you lie to us again,” George snaps, cutting him off. “We’ve been worried about you all day and you’ve been sitting here having fun, skipping a day of school.” 

Lawrence bristles and sets his jaw, eyes flashing. 

“I didn’t want to go to school, alright? Why are you so mad? You let me skip the other day.” 

George sighs through his nose and takes a deep breath, tries not to lose his temper. He’s not his father.

“That was wrong of us, yes, but you can’t keep doing this. The point isn’t that you skipped school; it’s that you lied to us, Lawrence. You can’t lie to us and expect to get away with it.” George’s voice is slowly raising in volume and Lawrence reacts in kind, sitting up straighter and glaring at him. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he spits. 

“Oh I absolutely can.” 

“George,” Alex says softly, laying a soft hand on his shoulder. “Don’t start yelling; it won’t help anything.” Alex starts to rub his shoulder but George shakes his hand off and steps forward. 

“Alex and I are in charge of you, Lawrence. It’s our job to make sure that you’re doing the right thing. You can’t just do whatever you want and not listen to us.” 

“You’re not my fucking parents,” Lawrence snaps. “I don’t have to listen to you and you can’t tell me what to do. Stop trying to act like I’m your son because I’m not and I never will be.” Lawrence’s eyes glint with something close to glee as the words hit George like a sucker punch to the gut. He tries not to show it, but the little self-satisfied smirk on Lawrence’s face lets him know that the hurt is written across his face. George clenches his fists. 

“You can’t speak to me that way, Lawrence—me or Alex! We don’t have to be your parents, but we are your guardians and that means you have to listen to us. I doubt you spoke to your mom and dad this way.” George is shouting now and he hates himself because he sounds just like his father. If he closes his eyes this could be 1989 and his father could be screaming at him after a late night bender. Lawrence’s jaw snaps together and he laughs, unkind, before sneering at George. 

“You don’t know shit about me or my mom and dad so don’t act like you do!” Lawrence stands up and balls his fists. “You’re not my fucking father. Neither of you are and you never will be.” He shakes his head and stalks up to George. 

“Lawrence,” George snaps.

“Jesus Christ, stop trying to act like you’re in charge of me,” he shouts. “I hate you and I wish I’d never come here!” He shoves at George’s chest before pushing past them and stalking out of the room. His stomping footsteps echo as he thunders down the stairs. 

“God dammit!” George stalks out of the room and goes into the bedroom where he starts slamming doors open and closed as he changes into his work suit. He’s still fuming as he ties his shoes with shaking hands. When he finally looks up, Alex is patiently standing there, his eyes cloudy with an emotion George can’t quite place. 

“George,” he starts, but George shakes his head. He doesn’t want to fucking hear it—Alex’s little spiel about how Lawrence really does love him. He can’t handle it, not today. 

“I can’t do this right now. I’m going down to the office.” He starts to walk out of the room, but Alex grabs his arm and shakes his head tersely. 

“You need to calm the fuck down. Shouting at Lawrence accomplished absolutely nothing. I mean, what the fuck George?” George wrenches his arm away and squeezes his fists. 

“I told you I wouldn’t be a good father. I _told you_. I can’t do it. I always knew I’d end up just like my fucking father.”

“You’re nothing like your father and you know it,” Alex says firmly, but George is already making his way out the door, hands shaking as he pulls the door open. 

“I’m going to the office.” 

“George—”

“I’ll see you later. We’ve got a meeting with the Saudi delegation at three.”

“Pleas—”

George steps into the hallway and closes the door with a click, images of his father shouting at him flashing through his mind.

He supposes the old adage is right: like father, like son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sorry it's been so long. I hit a bit of a roadblock with this. Not super happy with this chapter, but it is what it is. Sorry for the angst (but not really). 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	12. Ave Maria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex talks to David Fahrenthold in the beginning. David is a reporter for WaPo. 
> 
> Sorry for all the waiting lately; school is super busy.

Alex stares at the ground as he walks to his office, ignoring his coworkers’ curious glances. Everyone’s always trying to get the scoop on him and George—what’s going on in the Residence upstairs, what’s the First Family drama. Fuck that. 

He slams the door to his office a little too hard, his paintings rattling on the wall as he yanks his chair back and sits down. He punches in his computer password and drums his fingers as he waits for it to start up. Fuck this. And fuck George. Alex is so tired of him acting like such an asshole all the time, and him yelling at Lawrence? 

Alex remembers getting screamed at as a kid, knows that George does too, and he’s determined _not_ to be that kind of parent. Lawrence doesn’t deserve that. 

As Alex aggressively opens his email and mutters to himself, his desk phone rings shrilly and he jumps, startled. 

“What?” he barks as soon as he picks it up. The person on the other end chuckles and Alex grits his teeth.

“Woah, okay. I’m sensing some drama at the White House?” 

Alex sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Hey Fahrenthold. I already told you ‘no comment.’” Alex absently picks up a pen and spins it in his fingers. David heaves a sigh. 

“Oh come on, Alex. You’re seriously not going to comment? I saw the way Toby fudged it in the briefing. The White House has to have a comment on North Korea’s new missile.” 

“Okay, fine. I’m only going to say this once so make sure you’re ready. The Washington administration isn’t interested in escalating tensions with North Korea or participating in the game they’re trying to play. We aren’t going to let them antagonize us. President Washington is dedicated to diplomacy and will continue to support and encourage North Korea in participating in nuclear non-proliferation.” 

Alex can hear David rapidly typing before humming in appreciation. 

“Alright, thanks Alex. You can expect a story in a couple of hours. Can I name you as the source?” 

“Yeah; I don’t have anything to hide. This is the policy we’re pursuing. It’s not exactly groundbreaking stuff.” 

“Alright, well, I appreciate it. Thanks again, Alex.” 

“Yep,” Alex says before hanging up the phone. He rubs his eyes and opens up the document he was working on. He’ll just get some work done. Work always makes him feel better, always has. He plugs his headphones in, turns on some random playlist he made the other day, and gets to work. 

At one point his desk phone rings and he irritatedly picks it up. It’s Betsy informing him that the president wants to see him. Alex scoffs and promptly instructs Betsy to tell the president that he’s going to be in meetings all day. Alex has a busy schedule too. The president will just have to wait. Betsy quietly tells him that she’ll pass the message on. 

Fuck George. He can’t just call Alex into his office and give him those stupid puppy dog eyes, sweet talking and whispering how sorry he is. Alex is tired of that shit, tired of letting George get away with being an asshole because he’s _sad._ It’s all a bunch of bullshit and Alex isn’t going to stand for it. Not anymore. 

So he goes back to work, still fueled by the bitterness burning hot in his chest. Angelica swings by his office toward the end of the day and he impulsively asks her if she wants to get dinner. She cocks an eyebrow and plops down in the chair in front of his desk, red lips pursed. 

“You know that you can’t just go out. You’re not a normal person anymore.” 

Alex scowls and drums his fingers on his desk. Sometimes he fucking hates being trapped in this stupid house. 

“I don’t care. I’ll have them clear a restaurant out. I can’t stand being here right now. I just need to get out for a little bit. I feel like I’m going crazy.” Alex clenches his fists and huffs a sarcastic laugh. Angelica’s eyes widen and she leans forward. 

“Alex is everything okay?” 

“No,” he says before he can stop himself. “Nothing is okay.” 

“Is it George?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get out of here. I’m going to talk to my detail about going out to that pub we used to go to. Meet me in my office at six.” 

Angelica warily studies his face for a few seconds before nodding and standing up. She adjusts her dress and sighs. 

“See you at six.” 

\---

Alex takes another swig of his cider and pulls at his tie, loosening it further. A Queen song is playing quietly on the speaker system and the TV across from their table is turned to some basketball game. Alex picks up a fry and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Angelica is sitting there watching him, occasionally sipping on her Heineken. 

“How’s Lawrence?” she finally asks, breaking the silence. Alex immediately shakes his head and tips his head back, finishing off his cider. 

“Awful. Everything is just fucking awful.” He motions to the bartender and leans forward on the sticky bar top. “Gin and tonic, please. And make it a double.” 

The bartender nods and gets to work. Angelica shoots him a sharp look. 

“Are you _trying_ to get drunk?” she asks dryly. Alex grins and nods.

“I fucking deserve it. You can’t even—this past month has been so hard, Angelica.” The bartender brings his drink and he nods in thanks before taking a sip. It’s good, goes down nice and smooth. Angelica is looking at him with a mix of pity and some other emotion he can’t quite place and he flushes, hoping that the alcohol will cover it up. 

“Alex,” she begins softly, but Alex cuts her off, waving his hand in the air. 

“It’s fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

“I think it would help. I don’t like seeing you so stressed and upset.” 

“Well how about you go tell George to get his shit together then. I’m so tired of always having to take care of his shit. I can’t do it anymore.” 

“It seems like George is just going through a rough patch,” she says slowly, obviously choosing her words carefully. Alex snorts and downs half his drink in one go. 

“I know. That doesn’t mean that I’m not also having a hard time. Everything is so _hard_ , and it doesn’t help that Lawrence is so… complicated. It’s like one minute he’s telling us how much he loves us and the next he’s shouting that he hates us. I think he needs some help—a therapist or something. He’s obviously not okay, and I don’t want him to end up all fucked up like me.” Alex shakes his head and polishes off his drink. When he moves his head the room moves in slow motion and he grips the bar in an attempt to keep himself upright on his stool. He always gets the spins. Angelica looks at him in concern but he just eats another handful of fries and shrugs. “I don’t know. This is just so shitty.” 

“Do you wish it hadn’t happened?” Angelica asks quietly, and Alex feels a surge of guilt because deep down he _does_. Sometimes he wishes that none of this was happening, wants things to go back to the way they were. But he shakes his head despite that. 

“Of course not. I love Lawrence.” 

“Okay.” Angelica finishes her beer and wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand. “Are you ready to head home?” 

Alex looks at the collection of cider bottles by his elbow and nods, trying to ignore the way the room spins and tilts. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

\---

By the time they make it back to the White House everything is spinning so badly that Trumbull has to help him up the stairs. When they reach the bedroom, Alex mutters a quiet apology and thanks him before staggering through the door. He’s surprised to find the bed empty, a note lying on his pillow. He walks up and frowns down at George’s neat handwriting.

_Went to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom. Thought you might want some space._

“Fucking dumbass,” Alex mutters. He’s not confident that he could make it all the way down to the Lincoln Bedroom without falling down so he decides to call George. Four rings go by before George picks up. 

“Alex?”

“Who else?” he asks snidely. “Why the fuck are you in the Lincoln Bedroom?”

“I—what? Alex, are you drunk?” 

“Yes. Now, why aren’t you in our bedroom?

“Like I said in the note, I thought you might want some space.”

“Well I don’t,” Alex snaps. “Come to bed.”

“Okay.” 

Alex throws himself down on the bed and fights off a rush of nausea. He doesn’t bother to look up when he hears the door opening and closing. A few seconds later, the bed is dipping and a hand is rubbing his back, a gentle pressure right in between his shoulder blades. He sighs and lets himself relax. 

“We aren’t supposed to go to bed angry,” he finally says. Above him, George snorts and shifts until he’s lying down along Alex’s side. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

“You should be.” 

“I never wanted to hurt Lawrence like that. I told myself that I wouldn’t yell at him. I don’t—” George heaves a sigh. “I don’t want to be my father.” 

“You’re not.” Alex rolls over to face George, shuddering as the room spins. George brushes his cheek with the back of his hand.

“I was today, though. I’m going to try to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Good.” 

“I started going to therapy.” 

Alex blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. 

“Good,” he finally manages to say. He swallows, works some spit into his mouth. “That’s really good, George.” 

“Yeah,” George says, a quiet exhale that Alex barely hears. He blinks away a sudden rush of dizziness and gropes around for George’s hand. 

“I’m so fucking tired.” His eyes are drooping closed but that’s not what he means.

“I know.” George understands; he always understands. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” A beat of silence. George shifts and changes positions. “Are you okay, Alexander?” 

The use of his full name makes him shiver. He moves closer to George, breathes him in. 

“I don’t know anymore.” 

\---

By the time Alex wakes up, George is already in the office. It’s a Saturday but work never really stops. Alex rolls out of bed and groans as his stomach roils. He considers just crawling back in bed and not getting up, but then he sees a bottle of Advil and glass of water on the bedside table. He smiles and takes a couple, drags himself out of bed and gets dressed for the day. 

He decides to go down to Lawrence’s room. It won’t hurt to at least check on him, even if he never wants to see Alex again. 

His heart is in his throat as he knocks, rapping his knuckles a couple of times and waiting. He’s about to turn around and leave when Lawrence finally opens the door. He stares up blearily at Alex and rubs his eyes with his fist. 

“Alex?” he asks around a yawn, and Alex can’t help but smile. 

“Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

Lawrence shrugs and sucks his lip in over his teeth. He chews on his lip for a few seconds, just studying Alex’s face, before he heaves a sigh. 

“Sorry about yesterday. I was having a bad day.”

“I know.”

“I really do love you. I promise.”

“I know.” 

“Do you still love me?” 

Alex pulls Lawrence into a hug, sways back-and-forth for a few seconds before letting him go. 

“Of course I do. I’ll always love you, okay? I promise.” 

Lawrence narrows his eyes dubiously, and he looks so much like George in this moment that Alex is almost knocked sideways. 

“You shouldn’t make promises that you can’t keep.” 

Alex almost laughs out loud because how many times has he heard George say that exact same thing? 

“Oh well. I’m going to try my best to keep it, okay?” 

“You could die, though,” Lawrence blurts out. Alex blinks, can tell it also caught Lawrence off guard by the dazed look on his face. Alex has to swallow past a lump in his throat before he pulls Lawrence into another hug, squeezing him as tightly as he can. 

“Well I’m going to try really hard not to die.”

“Thanks.” Lawrence sniffs and presses his face into Alex’s chest. “Is George okay?” 

“Yeah. He’s in his office.” Alex strokes Lawrence’s back, leans over and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

“Maybe later,” he says after a few seconds. “I think I’m gonna go back to sleep.” He pulls out of the hug and wipes his eyes. “I love you.”

Alex takes a deep breath, centers himself. Hearing that still blows him away. 

“I love you too.”

\---

Alex goes down the hall to the office in the Residence but pauses outside the door when he hears music. He strains to hear the song through the door. When he pushes the door open he’s surprised to hear _Ave Maria._

“George?” he asks. “What’re you doing?” 

George doesn’t bother to look up from where he’s stretched out on the couch reading a thick report.

“Working,” he says. Then, motioning to the bluetooth speaker on his desk, “don’t you love the _Ave Maria?_ My mother used to listen to it all the time. She sang in the church choir, you know.” 

Alex opens and closes his mouth, frowns. 

“I, uh, no. I didn’t know that.” Alex moves into the room, perches himself on the armrest. “Are you okay, baby?” 

“Yeah. I was just thinking about my mom.” George shrugs and pauses the music on his phone. “She and I never really… well, you know, but I kind of wish she was here right now. I feel like she would know what to do.” 

“About Lawrence?” 

George nods, eyes darkening. Alex tries to smile.

“I spoke to him this morning. He’s okay.” 

“I should go apologize.” George sits up and motions for Alex to sit on the couch. Alex slides off the armrest and tucks himself up against George’s side. 

“He’s asleep right now; he wanted to go back to sleep. I’d just wait until later. Let him come to you.” 

“I’m going to try to be better.”

“I know you are.” 

“I want to be here for you. You shouldn’t… have to deal with this alone. That’s not fair.” 

“Thanks George.” Alex blinks back a sudden rush of tears, turns and buries his face in George’s chest. He smells like his cologne and coffee, and Alex breathes him in. “How’re you feeling today?”

“I’m okay,” George says hesitantly. Then, with more conviction, “today is okay.” He presses a kiss to the top of Alex’s head. “After I finish this report I was going to take Argos for a walk. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’d love to.” 

\---

They take Argos for a long walk, winding around the White House grounds hand-in-hand. They take turns tossing a tennis ball and watching him run after it, brown ears flopping. At some point, Alex plops down in the grass and decides to just watch George toss the ball, enjoys the sound of George’s laugh every time Argos brings the ball back. 

Alex lies back in the grass, watches the clouds drifting lazily through the sky. _Ave Maria_ is stuck in his head and he closes his eyes, losing himself in the memories of the singer’s vibrating voice and the delicate piano accompaniment. 

The wind suddenly picks up and ruffles his hair, Argos barks at a squirrel, and George laughs. 

In this moment, everything feels okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to resolve a lil angst here. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
